


That My Two Arms Could Give Me Wing

by agent_orange



Series: That My Two Arms Could Give Me Wing [1]
Category: Generation Kill, Uglies Series - Scott Westerfeld
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Anal Sex, Body Modification, Dystopia, F/F, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, On the Run, Oral Sex, Slow Build, Surgery, Totalitarian State, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1748273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Christeson's struggle to leave the only home he's ever known leads him to a world he never could've imagined existing. It's not an easy journey, to say the least, and as soon as a problem is fixed, another one springs up.</p><p>Evan Stafford is, by far, the biggest complication.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to goingtoqueens, pjvilar, schlicky, and whizzy for betaing and general support. Thanks to eudaimon for writing the introduction.

Listen: this is the story of how we brought the far things near.

In the years at the end of the twenty-first century, everything began to change. Following an example set in Cairo, Tripoli and Damascus, protests were seen in New York, London, Paris. No major city was untouched. Governments and monarchies couldn't stand in the face of an entire generation. With one voice, the people spoke and, for a time, they were heard. It wasn't until the fires were out that people realized that what they had created was not a new world at all; it was the old world, but in ruins.

Anarchy is a flame that burns brightly and leaves a vacuum in its wake.

It was a center that could not hold.

In the end, another General replaced all the others that had come before him.

Mattis made his mark, and he made it quickly. It was obvious what became of giving people too much freedom. Revolution came quickly and easily. Slowly but surely, Mattis began to revoke personal freedoms.

The revolutions would not come again.

By 2175, there was no HIV or AIDS, no hunger, no debt. Psychiatric problems were issues of the past. People were, if not happy, content.

And the world went on.

\- from _Coming Around Again: The Last Revolution_ by Evan Wright

*

John's eighteenth birthday is in just over four months. He's the youngest of his friends, so he's stuck in the 'ville all on his own. He's got a room to himself now, which is just as well. Getting stuck rooming with some twelve-year-old kid would majorly blow.

The major told John that once he has his surgery and joins their ranks, everything will be great. Of course, John's gonna be a lowly intern, making him worse off than fucking Trombley, but hey, at least he'll be in the business of moving up. Not just a pre-op. Even without power, it sounds great. He's heard epic stories from Billy and he's almost sure at least half of them aren't exaggerated that much. Plus, he knows the parties (and girls) in the city get really wild.

All John has to do between now and his surgery is finalize his new face and not fuck up too badly. Considering how boring it is here, that really shouldn't be much trouble at all.

*

Being the oldest one in the dorm without any friends sucks more than John could have imagined. He hasn't spoken to anyone in days; he's probably going crazy. The waiting, needless to say, doesn't help.

Except he's not. Mental issues were eradicated over two centuries ago, his history teachers have told him. Sanity is not something people lose these days, and if the rare person starts acting weird, they just disappear.

So John definitely has his sanity, but it's not worth much without a use for it. He's nearly bored out of his mind anyway.

He could use his tablet to stream one of the really old movies the dorm offers, or eat, or go for a swim, but without anybody to do things with, it's kind of pointless.

Finally, John figures out one thing to do by himself. Something designed to be done alone: jerking off. He doesn't think about anyone in particular, just pushes up into his fist until he comes. Some of it gets on the wall, but John doesn't bother cleaning it up. He doesn't give a fuck if he gets extra chores for laziness, since he can give some freshman a few extra canteen tokens to do them for him.

John actually doesn't give a fuck about anything but his surgery.

*

He goes for a run around the entire 'ville. The size—barely twelve miles around—is meant to keep all the pre-ops contained and easy to find in case of an emergency. It works. It also gets boring. Still, a workout is a workout, even if he did the loop at least three times a week with Jeff and Kocher. Starting almost four years ago.

(One hundred and forty-two days.)

He reads a goddamn book. Well, it's on his tablet, and it's incredibly old, but this George Orwell dude seems like a pretty okay guy.

(One hundred and forty-one days.)

He cleans out his goddamn closet.

(One hundred and thirty-eight days.)

The in-wall clock is ticking, counting down the secondsminuteshours until the first day of John's life begins.

But at the rate it's going, John honestly can't tell if making it to his eighteenth birthday is worth surviving the boredom. He tries sleeping more to kill the hours, but he's too wired with nervous energy to get more than seven a night.

Life is apparently supposed to be so much better than it was hundreds of years ago. John's not so sure he agrees.

*

They run into each other in the hall—literally. John drops all his laundry, boxers and sweatshirts spilling messily onto the floor.

"Watch where you're fucking going," the guy says. Based on how old (and okay, attractive, if John's being honest) he looks, he should already be in the city, but he's got this white-blond hair and normally they inch you closer to baseline when you have your operation. This guy's just too pale to have changed already.

"Sorry," he says. It's kind of pathetic how quickly he tries to shrink back into himself. "Sorry, I wasn't—"

"Yo, it's cool, it's good," the guy interrupts, cracking a smile. "Just wanted to fuck with you."

"Oh." John breathes a sigh of relief. "Well...good."

"Q-Tip," the guy says. "I gotta make my own fun now, and you looked like an easy target."

"John." They shake hands, and John does his best not to wrench away from Q-Tip's too-tight grip. He's not sure if he should be offended, but figures it's best to let it go. "Are you stuck here all by yourself too?" he asks.

"Yeah. It's fuckin' screwby." Q-Tip shakes his head. He seems as unhappy as John does about his situation, but maybe they can chill before they get to be in the real world. Still, Q-Tip looks more mature than John, and it makes him wonder.

"Not to be rude or anything, but...shouldn't you already be in the city? You just look older than most of the losers around here."

"Motherfuckers bounced me back for nine whole months," Q-Tip explains. "Apparently I got 'behavioral issues.'"

John didn't even know people got their changes delayed as punishment, but he guesses it's a possibility.

"That blows," he says. He can't imagine having to wait any longer than he has to, especially since he's behind his friends as is. "Wait, why haven't I seen you before?" If they're roughly the same age, they should've been living in the same building and having class together.

"Well, they thought maybe I'd stay out of trouble somewhere else. So they moved me here from a few klicks south, maybe two weeks ago," Q-Tip explains.

Now John feels worse for him. Having to wait to move is one thing; being somewhere completely new without knowing anyone is another.

"How long do you have left?" he asks.

"Just about four months," Q-Tip says with an eye roll. "Shit's whack, yo. I'm a motherfucking adult, and they want me to chill with little kids until spring. I can't even get any visitation privileges."

"On the bright side," John tries, "that's when I go, too. So you're not completely alone." He realizes how stupid and clingy he sounds, and blushes, but Q-Tip just grins and says great like he means it.

They end up grabbing dinner together, which takes longer than expected—Q-Tip eats enough food for three people, and John takes his time with the large piece of snozberry cake the kitchen was going to throw out (what with it being a day old and all). It’s hard to tell if Q-Tip’s stories about the stunts he’s pulled are fake or not, but they’re entertaining as fuck, and John’s enjoying not being bored, for once. He easily agrees to meeting up the next morning, and then heads back to his dorm, feeling oddly giddy.

*

John wakes up feeling better than he has since Gabe—who was the last of John’s friends to turn eighteen—left. He feels like today might even be a good one.

Breakfast at the d-hall is bacon, eggs, and toast, and John’s managed to find some coffee powder from a guy on his floor. It’s instant, and doesn’t taste very good, but it’s banned and a needed energy boost. He wants to be all alert and shit for his meeting with the surgeon who’ll be doing his operation, and plus, his BFR has to be ‘acceptable’ for anesthesia or whatever. It doesn’t really make sense, but John doesn’t want anything holding him back from leaving.

His parents (ugh) pick him up at nine and take him to this huge-ass, fancy-looking building near the part of town where the rich fucks and middle-aged people live. Little kids with their parents, too; you leave them and move into the dorms in the 'ville at age eight, no matter what.

Just to get in, John has to have eye and fingerprint scans, which is kind of unnerving, because they’re obviously just going to check his ID again when they actually get to the doctor’s office.

The consult goes better than expected, though. The doctor—Aubin, he thinks, but he’s not sure—has new photos taken of John, and those are used to update the 3D scans of his new look. According to them, John will look recognizable after surgery, but they want to rough up his features a little. Make his lips thinner and his cheekbones less prominent, the doctor says with a wink.

It sounds good, and John's parents are nodding very intently. The guy on-screen looks like he belongs in the city and has an important job. John uses his tablet to make the guy's features a little less drastically different from his current ones and clicks the 'accept image' box, signing his name slowly.

His mother looks like she might cry; his father looks proud. Some assistant (or nurse, whatever) goes over a really long list of pre-op and post-op shit with John. Most of it sounds okay, but he's not looking forward to not eating beforehand and not exercising after. It's worth the pain, he knows. That doesn't mean he has to enjoy it.

John's parents, having taken the day off from work, insist on treating him to an early lunch. They weren't around much when he was little and he bets they're still trying to absolve themselves of the guilt.

Restaurants in the city are fucking good, though, and the fancy lunch is an especially needed break from d-hall food. His parents insist on making small talk for most of the meal, which makes the awkward silences even worse. It's not that they're bad people. It's just that they don't really understand him.

Finally, he gets back to the 'ville, and his first thought is to find Q-Tip and show him the pictures. He has no idea where Q-Tip lives, though, so he checks the d-hall (almost empty) and the main lounge (filled with preteens) before finding him by the artificial pond. 

He's got a book in one hand and a burger in the other, which is kind of surprising. John didn't peg him as the literary type, but he actually doesn't know all that much about Q-Tip. Like an idiot, John trips over a rock as he's running down the hill. Q-Tip turns and laughs so hard he almost chokes.

"Thanks a lot," John grumbles. "Keep it up and I won't show you the post-surgery imaging scans I have."

Q-Tip just plucks the folder out of John's hands, flipping through the shots.

"Dude, this doesn't even look like you," he says, scrunching up his nose. "Who's doing this? They're changing you too much."

"That's the point," John sighs exasperatedly. "Nobody in the city looks like me, and after this, I'll look like them. I'll fit in."

"Sometimes it's better to stand out, and nothin's wrong with your face. Well, nothin' that terrible, anyway." Q-Tip closes the folder and passes it back to John. "Do what you want. I'm just sayin' it's a waste."

No one's ever said something like that to John before—society tells you you're born ugly and will need surgery to fix that. Even parents can't tell their children they're special or anything, not before the kid's eighteen. It feels good. He feels good, feels like someone likes him for real.

"Come on," Q-Tip says as he stands up. "Let's go to the courts. You could stand to lose a few pounds, Christeson."  It's the first time he's called John by name. He doesn't even know how Q-Tip found it out.

*

By the time they're done playing basketball, the sun is low in the sky, and John is sweaty and exhausted. If he'd known how badly Q-Tip would beat him, he probably would've suggested, like, sim bowling or something. Q-Tip jumps up, his hands pushing down on John's shoulders, his weight sending John reeling forward.

"Loser buys dinner!" he yells, and with how much he eats, it probably won't be cheap. Live and learn, John guesses as he watches his meal points drop and drop when Q-Tip rattles off his order.

*

For lack of anything better to do, they head back to John's room and watch the lights and fireworks from parties in the city. The glow is sort of distant and hazy, like John's seeing them through a fogged-up window, even though he's just a short walk away from the glamour. Flashes of pink and orange and yellow stain Q-Tip's hair in patches, but his eyes are focused on something in the distance, a pinpoint John can't seem to find.

"Hey, you cool?" he asks gently, shaking Q-Tip's shoulder a bit. He gets a startled reaction and then a nod, so John lets him stare out into the sky until he falls asleep. Since John hadn't expected him to stay over, he didn't set up the air mattress, and since it's too late to do it, he covers Q-Tip with a blanket and goes to sleep in the lounge.

He sees how young and peaceful Q-Tip looks when he's sleeping, and doesn't even try to pretend he didn't notice it.

*

When John returns to his room the next morning, the only sign Q-Tip was ever there is the freshly made bed—John normally doesn't bother with it. He wonders if he did something wrong or made Q-Tip upset all through Saturday morning brunch, where he eats like he hasn't in a day. Granted, that's mostly because brunch seems to be the one (or one and a half, whatever) meal the d-hall does well.

It's kind of weird that he doesn't see Q-Tip, because he loves to eat and probably loves brunch, but clearly something happened last night that's keeping him from acting like himself.

Fucking Trombley corners John on his way out—he wants advice or someone to take him along on a stunt or something, but John's not going to take pity on the little psycho just because he's getting close to leaving. The kid's beyond all hope.

He manages to slip out intact and without a huge argument, so that's a small victory, though he'll probably need to avoid Trombley for at least a week.

With Q-Tip nowhere to be found and without any responsibilities or plans, John figures he should do something to counter the boredom, which ends up being swimming. The pool is completely empty—under-twelves aren't allowed without a minder—which John appreciates. It's just annoying when people are loud and obnoxious when he's trying to relax and/or exercise.

And since there's no one there, he doesn't see a problem with turning the jets and bubbles on and stripping down. Why bother with a suit if he's alone?

It's just warm enough, but not so much the heat is uncomfortable. The water relaxes his muscles, soothing over the places that are sore from running. He does laps in long, easy strokes, raising his head from the water every so often to suck in a deep breath.

Every noise he makes reverberates, and John yells just to do it. The echo is deafeningly loud, and he ducks back underwater, where it's a little quieter. He wonders when the fitness center got all revamped, 'cause he doesn't remember any of this.

There's a diving board where there wasn't one before, so John does a few (plus one ill thought-out belly flop that leaves his skin red and stinging). When his energy starts to fade, he stops and floats on his back, staring up at the skylight. The sun's bright enough to hurt a little, so John shields his eyes and only spends another minute like that before doing a handstand.

Just to see if he can do it, John takes a big fucking lungful of air, dives into the pool, and swims as far as he can without coming up.

He ends up just a few feet short of making it and gasping for breath—it seemed a lot smaller above water. Q-Tip is standing at the edge of the pool, fully clothed, looking a little dazed. Honestly. John spent a good part of the morning looking for him and now he decides to just show up? While John is naked, no less.

"What the fuck," he says, and then louder, just to be sure Q-Tip hears him. "I've been looking for you." And Q-Tip just blinks and goes oh. He looks weirded-out or something, which makes John want to get out and see if he's okay, but he's not wearing anything and thinks it would be weird. There are towels by the door—too far away.

"Can you close your eyes for a minute?" John asks, climbing out of the pool with the expectation that Q-Tip will do it.

He doesn't—doesn't even look away, for fuck's sake—and John automatically tries to cover himself with his hands. Swearing, he walks quickly but carefully, so he doesn't slip and crack his head open over to the table and wraps a towel around his waist.

"Seriously, what the fuck happened to you, man?" Now John's getting worried for real, because even though he hasn't known Q-Tip for very long, he strikes John as the kind of person who only gets this rattled by serious shit. "Did someone die or something?"

"No. At least not that I know of." Q-Tip's voice is steady and unsure; he seems so unlike himself. He shakes his head emphatically. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"Okay," John says, not quite sure of what to do next. It feels like he should hug Q-Tip, though that might just make the whole thing worse. "Let me just find my clothes and we can get some coffee and talk about—"

"You wanna head back to my room? I can't stand being here." Q-Tip interrupts. "I have stuff."

Stuff could mean any one of a number of things that the dorm prohibits. John accepts without a second thought, especially with Q-Tip looking like he really needs to forget something.

"Anything you want. I should probably change first, though." John takes a few steps in the locker room's direction. When Q-Tip follows him, he keeps his mouth shut, even though it's unexpected and a little odd. Casual physical contact is looked down upon, and this isn't that, but he's pretty sure this could get them a warning.

Luckily, the locker room has curtained stalls. When John's done, Q-Tip's face is wet, like he washed it, but he doesn't seem any calmer.

"Maybe we should stop for some food?" John suggests. Q-Tip's pale as fuck, and probably a few steps—literally—from collapsing. There's a to-go store connected to the d-hall where they could grab something quick. He'll even treat willingly.

With some food (a protein wrap and some generic-brand sports drink), Q-Tip does look a bit healthier, a little more stable, but John sticks close in case he starts to wobble. Q-Tip has to lead the way, since John doesn't know which building he lives in.

His room is a double with just one bed, and in complete disarray. Walking through it is sort of like what John imagines walking through a minefield would be like, especially since he almost trips on a free weight that's just laying in the middle of the room. It makes Q-Tip laugh and look alive, shockingly.

"That could've killed me," he points out.

"Yeah, but it didn't. So shut up and lock the fuckin' door."

John does as he's told, and when he turns back around, Q-Tip is pulling a brown paper bag out from underneath the bed. Glass clinks together, sounding so loud in the confined space, but Q-Tip says his dorm monitor lives all the way at the other end of the hall. A shot glass is shoved into John's hands and filled; he's told to drink and chase it with some lemonade. He's pretty sure you can just mix them together, but Q-Tip rolls his eyes at the suggestion and claims he knows best.

"Again," he instructs. "I know you're not that much of a lightweight."

So John does another, and another. He starts to feel buzzed, more relaxed, and the tension in his shoulders dissipates a little. On the other hand, Q-Tip is hardly showing anything—his jaw is less tight, but that's it.

"We're switching to beer now," Q-Tip announces, and as nice as it is to hang out and drink, John hates that he has no say in anything. The paper bag is just within his reach, so he lifts it and pulls out the nearest bottle, twisting open the top so he can drink it straight.

...Which is a terrible idea, he realizes, because it's moonshine. He winces, eliciting a small smirk from Q-Tip.

"Ready to talk about what happened yet?" John asks. "Seriously, you looked pretty fucked-up. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Shut up and drink." Q-Tip gulps down the rest of his beer, Adam's apple bobbing. John's transfixed by it, but that goes unmentioned.

"Fine, then. But what's with the nickname? I mean, 'Q-Tip?'" John asks. "It's not very tough. Don't really think it suits you."

"Yo, I'm glad you think so. Intimidation's the only thing I got." Q-Tip grins a little. "Cuz of my hair, you know? And I used to be real skinny when I was a kid. Like a Q-Tip. One day my friend Chaffin came up with it and it just stuck."

"But what's your real name?" He's been curious about it since they met, but didn't know how Q-Tip would react if he asked. Now that they're drinking, though, all bets are off.

"It's Evan. After my grandpa."

"Evan," John repeats. It suits him, mostly.

"The reason I don't go by that is cuz he was a real bastard," Q-Tip explains. "I don't like thinking about him, so…"

"I'll make sure not to call you that, then. Sorry I asked." He has to have two more vodkas and shotgun his beer as punishment, Q-Tip says, and John goes along with it because he would've drunk them anyway. That doesn't mean he likes it. "You're an ass," he says flat-out, kicking Q-Tip hard under the table.

"'s part of my charm and you know it," is the response John gets. Q-Tip may be cocky, but he's also right. His honesty is refreshing; it's rare to meet a pre-op who's so confident.

Right about then is when they both start to slur their words, vowels getting looser with each sip of alcohol. John can feel his cheeks flushing and see Q-Tip's reddening, too, really incongruous with his pale...everything.

Fumbling, Q-Tip manages to call up some music on his player. It's wordless electronica, synthesized and repetitive, but at least it doesn't give John a headache, which is usually what happens with noise when he's drunk.

It fades into background noises fairly quickly, almost disappearing against the sounds of liquid sloshing and Q-Tip's out-of-the-blue laughing fit. When Q-Tip starts fucking shaking, John gets a little worried that he's going to hurt himself or choke from lack of oxygen.

Then he kind of falls on John, and all of John's thoughts are gone.

(Here are his thoughts on Q-Tip, though: the guy makes his heart beat faster and his stomach drop out, even though society would probably call that an inappropriate reaction. And John would much rather have a relationship than a one-night stand. That's all.)

He's heavy but not uncomfortable, though he's squirming around and dangerously close to elbowing John in the nose. It takes some work for John to get out from underneath him, and when Q-Tip finally stops laughing, he shifts so they're lying side by side. Even though Q-Tip is still practically on top of him, it's more comfortable, though comfortable is relative. They're touching at the shoulders and hips and knees, and John's skin feels hotter in those places.

Q-Tip drops his mostly-empty bottle onto the small pile of clothes that's accumulated by the bed. The sound's muffled by cotton and polyester, though it sounds like some of the vodka has spilled out.

His fingers come to rest right at John's wrist, skimming over his veins. Maybe he gets more touchy when he's drunk. There's no way of telling. John can't say he minds it at all, even though he's kind of ticklish there, because the pads of Q-Tip's fingers are surprisingly soft. It feels nice.

(If he was less drunk, it'd probably send a tingle through his spine—at the very least—as pathetic as that is, but with this much alcohol in his system, nothing is going to happen.)

Slowly, John's eyelids start to feel too heavy to stay open, struggling against his logical side, which wants to stay awake as long as possible. (To see Q-Tip happy and chilled-out, which isn't coming from his logical side, needless to say.) He knows he should get up and sleep somewhere else so he and Q-Tip don't wake up, like, cuddling or something, but his limbs all feel like they've got weights on them.

He dozes off with Q-Tip still lightly touching his wrist, their ankles tangled together and the comforter bunched below their waists.

*

When he wakes up, his mouth is stale and sour, and his head is pounding. John turns over to see where the light's coming from and almost hits Q-Tip, who looks dead to the world, in the nose.

Memories from last night come rushing back: the thing at the pool, drinking, Q-Tip opening up a little. It was like seeing a completely different person, which makes things kind of awkward. Is John supposed to stay? Does he need to bring back breakfast and coffee? Can he just slip out now? There really should be some instruction manual on this, because Q-Tip is snoring a little, one arm slung over the space where John had been, and he's torn.

He leaves a note, just a quick scribble saying he had to leave, pulls on his shoes, and bolts.

It's not that he didn't like what happened. That's exactly the problem. He did, and now he has to deal with having a huge crush on a guy who's probably R0 (exclusively heterosexual, as the government reseachers' scale says. It's what John thought he was before he met Q-Tip). And figuring out what the hell he is, clearly, because the situation is confusing as fuck.

The rest of the day is spent trying to avoid thinking too much—John goes down to the pond and skips stones, to the gym and lifts weights, and to the shitty dorm kitchen to make himself some mac and cheese. His parents are probably home, or would be available if he called, but John's mom isn't a great communicator and his dad is worse. He wishes he had, like, a wise older person in his life who could help him get his shit together. Dan might be a good choice, he thinks, but as far as John knows, no one's heard from him since he fell into the party scene across the river.

…Maybe not such a good choice after all.

Basically, he might've just ruined things with the one person he had to talk to. This is fucking great. It's kind of hard to keep his freaking out to a minimum, so he ends up buzzing with nervous energy that can't even be countered by a downer pill. The only thing he can channel that into is video games, where can blow shit up and drive fast, so he plays and plays until his hand cramps and his eyes are sore. Then he forces himself to sleep and repeats the whole routine the next day.

There are a couple stupid information sessions about how not to fuck up too badly when he moves out that John has to go to. The rest of the time he does jack shit and is lonely for all the friends who got to go before him. And because John avoids interacting with people for a few days, he doesn't see Q-Tip at all. He's kind of worried about him, but doing nothing is probably better than doing the wrong thing.

*

John finally sees Q-Tip a few days later when they're stuck in a special assembly with a guest speaker, and Q-Tip takes the seat next to John's, making a few cracks. They don't talk about what happened, so it's almost like before, but not quite.

Still, John likes him too much to say anything and risk ruining what they have irreparably, so he tamps down the feelings bubbling up inside him, keeps his room fully stocked with snacks, and listens carefully when Q-Tip talks. True, it's painful, but it's definitely less painful than being some lonely friendless loser, holed up in his room until surgery.

*

"You wanna go boarding?" Q-Tip asks late one night. They're in John's room, messing around with his shitty-ass gaming system.

It makes John do a double-take. Boarding at night is pretty fucking dangerous, but he's not going to mention that to Q-Tip and sound like a pussy.

"The dorm monitors," he says instead, regretting it almost instantly, when he realizes that worrying about getting caught isn't better than worrying about his safety.

"Come on, it'll be great," Q-Tip says, more pleading now. He looks so fucking eager that it hurts John to say no.

"I’m really tired. Another time?"

Then Q-Tip smiles like he knows something John doesn’t. "I get it," he says. "You’ve never been on a hoverboard before. Dude, how?"

John can only duck his head and look embarrassed. Walt and Holsey weren't big troublemakers, so the most they ever did was, like, set off some sparklers in an abandoned field. 

"Well, you gotta do it before you change. It's too hard to do in the city, and nobody ever even wants to. We'll go together. We can go tonight." It’s not a request, it’s a demand, and Q-Tip always wins out in the end.

In the dark, John knows they won’t be able to see the tracks that mark the metal deposits in the ground, or when they end—hence the danger, since that's what keep the hoverboards in the air—but when has Q-Tip steered him wrong? Anyway, they’re wearing crash bracelets, so it’s unlikely either of them will die. Nightboarding is practically a rite of passage everyone is supposed to have before the leave the 'ville. The only thing he doesn't know is where they'll get the boards, since you have to get special permission to sign one out, and they're only available during limited hours. When he tells Q-Tip this, all he gets is that you're such an idiot! laugh.

"We're just gonna swipe 'em, bro. I know how to turn the sensors off without them showing it, and we'll put them back once we're done."

"Okay," John agrees cautiously. He follows Q-Tip's instructions (take off your belly sensor, strip down to the essentials but dress in darks, put on his watch cap) and arranges his pillow to look sort of like a person, in case someone comes by for fucking bed checks.

The boards and other interesting and possibly dangerous shit are kept on the roof of the science building. Instead of trying to pick the locks, Q-Tip hugs the wall as he goes around to the back and pulls down a shaky-looking ladder that John had no idea was even there.

"Are you scared, motherfucker?" John hears, and when the screws sound like they'll give way under their combined weight on each step up, he is a little freaked out.

Somehow, they both make it up, and Q-Tip hauls John from where the ladder ends over the edge of the roof. Up here, he can see the stars without any interference, and wonders how they'll look when he's zipping through the air.

There's a rack of safety jackets, but Q-Tip says he doesn't know how to get those off without triggering the alarms, so they have to go without. John doesn't watch as he does something with the box, because he doesn't really want to know how Q-Tip gets the hoverboards.

He's handed one, and it's a lot heavier than John expected it to be—after all, if it's in the air, a lot of weight doesn't make sense. It has to carry his weight, though, and since he doesn't understand the physics or engineering or whatever of it, he just holds it.

"I still can't believe you've never done this before. I'm gonna have to show you how," Q-Tip says. "Put it down and stand on it." John does. "Okay, shift your weight around some, 'cuz there's gonna be some force from the wind, and then turn left and right."

John feels like an idiot, standing on top of an 'off' hoverboard on top of a building while Q-Tip watches him, unimpressed, and that gets him a disapproving sigh.

"Just stand like this," Q-Tip tells him, walking closer and basically positioning John's body, his hands warm on John's hips. They're large and strong and shit—John should probably pay attention so he doesn't, like, get out there and die. "Pretend like you're turning again." This time, Q-Tip goes with him, pulling John's weight to one side to mimic the wind's power. "Damn, I gotta show you everything," Q-Tip jokes, only it's pretty true.

When Q-Tip takes his hand away and steps back so he can flip his own board into his hands, John feels this oddly deep loss, like he was whole for a minute and now he's not.

"I'm ready," he says. "Let's do this." The first few seconds off the roof are incredibly freaky. There's no getting around that. Q-Tip is right next to him, though, and his center of gravity adjusts. Beneath him, the ground becomes more distant, and the city seems closer.

John's never felt anything like this before. They're not even that high up, but the wind is whipping at his skin as the board carries him. It's a lot colder, and his lips will probably be chapped as fuck tomorrow. And none of it matters, for whatever reason. Q-Tip's ahead of him, swerving into sharp turns for no apparent reason other than it's probably an extra kick of energy. He's yelling so loudly everyone below can probably hear it, even with the wind roaring.

Easing the weight from the balls of his feet makes John's board lift a good few feet higher, and his heart drops into his stomach, but in a good way, if that's even possible. He manages to steal a glance at Q-Tip, who's definitely the happiest John's ever seen him, and smiles wide.

Suddenly, there's a loud whoosh of air, like it's suddenly been let out of a pressurized tube or something. Q-Tip's mid-flip, tongue out and short hair wild, and then he jerks his body to the side and comes upright again. The mechanics of that confuse the hell out of John; he's not even going to wonder. Or think about trying that anytime soon, because gravity isn't supposed to work like that.

John insists they turn around just before they hit the city's outer limits—there's having fun irresponsibly, and then there's just being a fucking dumbass. That doesn't go over very well, but John's putting his fucking foot down for once. Q-Tip can't call all the shots, all the time. He concedes to taking a detour, though, around the couples park and nursery school, because the feel of the night air on his skin, from this angle, is kind of thrilling.

When they finally touch back down on the grass (John refuses a roof landing, because if they miss, it could be a long fall down), his heart's beating like crazy. It's a pretty warm night, yet he can't stop shivering, which is confusing. Q-Tip claims it's the extra adrenaline, and John's not sure if the theory is valid or bullshit. Either way, they dump their boards and jog to Q-Tip's dorm (it's closer) so John can grab a hoodie. It's slightly too big on him, which makes him feel both protected and like a kid.

His chills eventually slow and then stop; Q-Tip only rags on him a little. But he also mixes John up some instant hot chocolate, mooting his point. John appreciates the gesture and the warmth, even if it's kind of watery.

"So, how was it for you?" Q-Tip asks. "I'm actually kinda surprised you didn't panic and bail up there. If anyone would, it'd be you." John throws his empty cup at him, drops of congealed cocoa spilling on the floor and across the knees of Q-Tip's pants. "Jus' kidding," he says quickly. "You picked it up kinda quick. We'll definitely have to go again, though, so you can do more than just go in a straight fucking line the whole time."

"If you want to," John agrees. He'd be perfectly happy to keep his feet planted firmly on the ground, even if life is about taking risks. Talking to Q-Tip in the first place was a pretty damn big risk, John thinks, and he can only imagine what kind of shit he'll—or they'll, rather—get into once they move. Talking to him again after their drunk cuddle session took even bigger balls, so maybe he's not a killjoy after all.

For a while, they sit in comfortable silence, watching streams of television shows that are hundreds of years old. Everything seems like he's looking at it from far away, grainy and out-of-focus, until Q-Tip hands him a frozen toaster pastry, and then there's chewing and laughing and before either of them know it, the whole pack is gone.

He's full, almost uncomfortable, but he figures he deserves it. There's probably some connection between lots of adrenaline and burning calories, not that he's smart enough to know. Also, the d-hall's menu for the night was shitty (cabbage soup), so they skipped it.

"Next time," John says, "don't tell me I need to lose a few pounds and then stuff me full of sugar and empty carbs, you fucker."

Q-Tip snorts. "Don't blame me if you can't control yourself, fatass."

"I'll get you some goddamn carrot sticks and celery for the room," John offers, half-seriously. "They don't like fat new recruits across the river."

"You're crazy," Q-Tip replies, shaking his head. "I'd rather eat cardboard."

It's incredibly late when John decides he has to stumble back to his own dorm for the night, a mix of wanting his own bed and not wanting to torture himself by sleeping in close proximity to Q-Tip again.

*

The sky outside is still dark when John's woken the next morning by a crushing pressure on his lungs and stomach. This is a nightmare he's had before (dying young, or violently), but when he raises his head a couple inches and blinks the sleep from his eyes, it's just Q-Tip sitting on him.

Just. Q-Tip. Sitting. On him.

"Get off me," he says as calmly as possible, because a. he can't breathe, and b. he probably has a boner and doesn't want Q-Tip to get the wrong impression or anything.

(Not that, you know, Q-Tip is...hot in the way girls haven't always been to John. It's nothing. Really.)

"Pussy," Q-Tip taunts. He's dressed and ready for the day, somehow. Not even the dorm monitors are up this early. The lights on the grounds haven't come on yet; John's eyelids feel heavy and sore with the sleep he's missing out on. But he'd much rather be tired than bored, especially since he'll get plenty of rest after the operation.

Q-Tip tosses him some clothes, as well as a toothpaste pill and a bottle of water. "Hurry up," he says. "I want to go running before everyone else is awake to ruin our day."

He feels like he only slept for a couple hours; his body's protesting. "If you say so."

John turns his back so he can change without Q-Tip watching him. Or at least watching Q-Tip watch him. He kind of thinks he needs to shower, but figures he'll need one more after he's done exercising. "Which pair?" he asks, gesturing in the direction of the pile of shoes on the floor, and Q-Tip fishes out the high-tech ones that are like running barefoot.

"Hurry up," Q-Tip says again. John really does wonder what the rush is—it's not like anyone's going to see them running and get angry or bother them. But he's set in under a minute, and Q-Tip leads the way out and onto the paved jogging path. He takes off in a full sprint, which John wasn't prepared for, and he has to push himself to catch up.

With Q-Tip still strides ahead of him, John can't help but notice that he runs like he's in the wild, all graceful and panther-like and shit. The muscles of his legs ripple as he moves, and John really needs to snap out of this...whatever this is.

The pavement curves left towards the quad, but Q-Tip's direction doesn't change. From John's perspective, it looks like they're headed for the woods. He's not really sure he gets it—there are a couple old buildings, ones the 'ville doesn't use, and John's been to parties in them, but he's sure even Q-Tip would agree that it's way too early to be drinking.

"Keep up, son," Q-Tip calls from over his shoulder, and John gets a sudden burst of energy, mostly in hopes of whupping the cockiness out of him. It works, mostly, and John figures staying right on Q-Tip's heels is acceptable enough.

He makes another turn and ducks under the tree, leading them into an even more wooded area. John notices a little bird's nest and nothing else, but Q-Tip makes a sharp left and a bridge appears from (what seems like) out of nowhere. It's not an iron-reinforced, city SmartBridge. It looks pretty old, and possibly dangerous.

"You coming or what?" Q-Tip asks, and he looks like he actually gives a shit about John's response. It feels weirdly good, and John nods, wincing when he accidentally steps on a loud tree branch.

As is usual now, Q-Tip leads the way, always so sure of his direction. Under John's feet, the bridge creaks and gives, somehow rebelling after Q-Tip crossed it silently not thirty seconds ago. He hears a hissed why you gotta be so loud? but figures he shouldn't respond.

Once they cross, they're in the city's outskirts. There are a few shitty-looking houses out here, and a pathetic tree or two, but outside of the suburbs, there really isn’t much. Q-Tip stays close to the edge of the woods, so John does too, and he keeps an eye out for City Patrol copters.

Even this early, the city looks so much better and brighter from here than it does from across the river. People are happy there, and John can’t wait to reunite with the rest of his old dorm.

Q-Tip tugs John past a bench so they can avoid setting of the motion sensor, and then they reach a large, plain-looking building. He reaches into his pack and starts pulling things out: gloves, ID cloakers, retractable knives. Like most people would be, John is pretty fucking freaked out, and backs up a couple steps, just to make sure he’s not going to get stabbed.

"What the fuck are we doing?" he hisses, glancing around nervously. None of this makes sense.

"Breaking into the main complex." Q-Tip acts like it's completely obvious, which it kind of is, but that's not the point. The better question might be why they're doing this, since they're so close to having it all. Why would they want to jeopardize that?

"Okay, why?" John amends.

"Remember how I was telling you about my friend Jason? Jason Lilley?" He waits for John to nod before continuing. "Not too long ago, he got caught up with this group of people who were pretty close to finding out some kinda conspiracy in Special Ops or whatever. Someone tipped a couple people off and he knew he needed to leave before they got to him, only...nobody knows if he made it out of the city or not, and I'm hoping I can find out the answer."

"I'm out," John says, going with his gut. "Believe me, I know you want to find him, but I can't help you with this. There's too much that could go wrong."

"Wait!" Q-Tip snaps, blocking John's path. "Come on. I trust you, okay? And I know you trust me, even if you think you shouldn't. I need a lookout. We'll be in and out so fast they won't even know we were there; if we get caught, I promise I'll take all the blame."

He's still leaning against breaking in (it's so dangerous, and John has a future that's not secure unless he's good," but Q-Tip adds, "I need you," and that's it, he's got John by the balls.

In a matter of speaking, anyway.

This isn't just another one of Q-Tip's mostly harmless stunts where he tests the limits to see what he can get away with. This is for a reason—there's someone's welfare involved, a friend of his'—which is why John commits to it too. He just hopes Q-Tip's plan is foolproof, and that Q-Tip can talk their way out of trouble if they get caught.

The building has security, high-tech cameras and armed guards and passcodes required to get in, though Q-Tip doesn't seem deterred. He swipes a card through the scanner (where the fuck did he get that, and whose is it?) and yanks John through before the green light switches back to red.

"What are you going to do about—" but before John can even finish asking his question, Q-Tip produces a can from his pack, jumps up, and sprays the camera screens.

"There. You happy?"

"Just go," he says, giving Q-Tip a little shove forward. "Tell me what room number we're looking for. I'll check one side and you can do the other."

"528-491," Q-Tip says.

"But we're in the basement!" It doesn't make sense. The rooms should be B-100 and up, like how some of his classrooms were numbered.

"Shh, just come," he hisses back.

The numbers are completely out of order—the first door on John's side starts with an eight, while the next one starts with a three—so it's kind of hard to find the one he's looking for. It's a clusterfuck, to say the least, and with every step he takes, he's worried about triggering some invisible sensor or laser that'll alert their presence to the higher-ups and get them tossed in a laogai camp.

When John does manage to find the room Q-Tip's looking for, he takes a minute to stop and look at the door, which is sort of creepy-looking. Unlike all the others, it's faded with age, and it's missing the sharp black letters that indicate who or what is inside.

"This is the one," says Q-Tip, half-shoving John out of his way. How he even gets them in is a mystery, but he puts John in front of the door and tells him to stand guard.

It'd be great if he had one of the knives Q-Tip packed or something so he'd look intimidating if anyone were to pass by. He can hear Q-Tip rummaging around and generally making a big fucking mess in the office or storage room. Does he even know what he's looking for?  Upstairs, boots hit the floor hard, faster than a normal walking pace. John's heart pounds in his chest, blood pumping in his ears. Specials could be coming for them right now, armed to the teeth and with ice in their veins.

A few minutes pass without any interruptions (if he ignores Q-Tip's grumbled curses); they must be safe. It makes him grit his teeth, though, because the possibility of that happening is pretty likely. When he turns around to see how Q-Tip's doing, John finds him with an official-looking folder in his hand as he clicks through something on the computer.

"Just copy the files so we can get out of here," John insists. "We'll have plenty of time to look at it later."

"One more," Q-Tip says, and grabs a thick, leather-bound book that's got 'confidential' stamped on the front, back, and side. He tosses John a stained rag, saying "wipe down what you touched" and does the same. "Okay, you go first. There's an exit on the opposite side of the hall, which we'll take, because they might've found where we busted in so they could wait for us to leave."

The rest of the hallway is dark and has fewer doors, so they hurry through it to the staircase. On the way out, though, the emergency exit door alarm goes off and they have to sprint all the way back to the woods with their gear still on.

"Shit," John gasps, trying to catch his breath. "Are you sure no one saw us?"

"Relax. If they did, we'd've shaken 'em by now. Even with technology, they can't see through forest. Let's go back, though," Q-Tip says, and then yells loudly.

Instinctively, John rushes to cover his mouth. They got what they came for, but it wouldn't be good if someone found them. Luckily, Q-Tip gets the point, and quiets down so they don't have to walk the whole way back like that.

"Sorry. I'm just really fuckin' excited," he says. "Lilley's been MIA for a few months, and this—" he brandishes his portable info card "—is the key to figuring out what the fuck happened."

"I get it. How about we go back to the dorms so you can be less of an idiot and still blow off steam?" John suggests, already a few paces in front of Q-Tip.

*

After stopping to ditch their packs in Q-Tip's room, burying them in the closet, they wander around. Finally, they end up in the quad, people-watching and just messing around. Something John says makes Q-Tip lightly punch his shoulder, and it dawns on him that all the tension that had been lingering between them is gone. While it's a huge relief, it's also kind of a letdown, because some of that tension had been sexual and the lack of it makes John wonder if there's no longer anything between them.

He knows that there shouldn't be—according to the government, society, and his own damn parents, at least—but if he concentrates hard enough to block out all the external influences, he can probably admit that he'd be disappointed if he and Q-Tip are going to only be friends.

It actually makes him feel so sick to his stomach that he has to tell Q-Tip he's not feeling well and stop by the to-go store for some anti-nausea tablets. Then he lies in bed and stares up at the ceiling, feeling like nothing's really changed since before he met Q-Tip. Except, of course, that he's, like, ten times more sexually frustrated. Life just sucks, and his in particular.


	2. Chapter Two

Q-Tip's dorm is empty when John stops by the next morning, and he's not at breakfast or on the basketball courts, either. Briefly, John wonders if someone came for him in the night, but remembers that there would've been a dorm meeting about it. And there's no way they would've taken Q-Tip and left John. They both wiped their prints off everything they touched and blacked out the camera screens on the way in.  
  
Knowing that Q-Tip's most likely safe, John's able to relax a little bit, though he wonders if his dorm advisor would know where Q-Tip is.  
  
Laziness wins out. Surprise, surprise. John brushes his teeth but doesn't change out of his boxers and t-shirt, which means he's not allowed in for breakfast with everyone else. There's an unmarked protein shake in the communal fridge, which he drinks, and then plunks down on the common room couch with someone's guitar and tries to coax a song out of the chords he knows. It sounds like shit, obviously. He really should practice more. He should write Q-Tip a song.  
  
Only...that's not where they are and it'd probably be creepy and just fuck things up more. So he sets the guitar aside, closes his eyes even though he's not tired, and dozes until last call for lunch.  
  
He doesn't find Q-Tip there, not that he really expected to after last night. But normally by now he's showed up at John's dorm or something, so the fact that he's absent all of a sudden only gets more concerning as the hours tick by. He's a big risk-taker, so it's not unlikely to think he might've gone boarding and lost track of the metal deposits in the ground or something like that. Q-Tip's good, but he's not invincible.  
  
Later, John gets stuck with kitchen prep and hall cleanup for breaking curfew so many times (and come on, he's almost an adult who doesn't need a curfew), keeping an eye out in case Q-Tip deigns to show up for dinner. He has to eat, after all, and the only thing John saw in his fridge was half of a wilted-looking salad.  
  
Since John's all alone, he has to sit at a two-top by himself; Trombley ends up creeping over, dumping his shit without asking, and talking John's ear off for a good forty-five minutes before John can get away under the guise of having a late orientation meeting.  
  
That's a complete lie, of course, but who knows what he would've done if he was stuck listening to the little freak for much longer? Long enough, and he'd make everyone go psycho.  
  
To John's relief, when he gets to Q-Tip's dorm, Q-Tip's in it. Granted, he's all disheveled and surrounded by piles of paper and his tablet, eyes puffy. He looks like he's been there all day, and John wonders if he actually hit up the library in the morning. It'd explain his absence.  
  
"Q-Tip," John says. "What's up? You weren't around anywhere. Aren't you starving?" John's question—the food part of it, anyway—goes ignored.  
  
"I've been thinkin' a lot lately," Q-Tip says around his toothpick. He's speaking in this soft tone John's never heard from him before. "Been busy readin' all the files we got. About the life in the city and shit."  
  
John can't help but laugh, because Q-Tip's not exactly a contemplative person. But he actually looks angry at John's reaction, so John schools his face into a neutral expression.  
  
"About what specifically?" John prompts. The whole thing is pretty cushy—no apartment-hunting, since they set you up with one; no college necessary, since you take an aptitude test and then get trained on the job; and if you’re new, you’re practically required to party a lot. What do either of them have to worry about?  
  
"Hundreds of years ago, it wasn't like this. I did research, okay? People overthrew their governments for getting too controlling. We're not supposed to be like lab rats."  
  
Obviously, John's never lived anywhere different, and he's never been unhappy with his life, at least not seriously. Everybody in the city where his parents live is content, and the new ops have it the best. He's not sure there's a problem, so he asks Q-Tip to elaborate.  
  
"We're monitored all the fuckin' time. Belly sensors before we change, and some kinda microchip after. That shit ain't natural, yo," Q-Tip says. "Nobody gets to pick their own job or house. Fuck, what if we're programmed to love a certain person and have kids with them?"  
  
That's a possibility John hadn't considered, but he's pretty sure it's not a real one, since he's never met anyone else who likes guys like he does. Nobody would genetically engineer a freak, right? Maybe he just doesn't know anyone else who's open about it.  
   
"It's just weird," he continues. "Do you know what happened the last time a government tried to make people look and act a certain way? A clusterfuck. A huge one. The way we live is called communism, and history says people hate it. I looked it up."  
  
What he's saying  _does_  makes sense. John's never really stopped to think about exactly what goes on during the operation, but he knows he'll look more normal after. Maybe that's why he's never really stopped to think about it: aesthetics took precedence over the more than a little sketchy nature of it.  
  
And he doesn't know much about history, but he knows Q-Tip must be getting serious if he did research.  
  
"We should just leave," Q-Tip suggests. "Lilley told me there's this group of people who live out in the wilderness—totally off-grid—and they're all really happy, apparently. Do you really wanna be under somebody's thumb for the rest of your life?"  
  
"But you have more freedom after you change," John says. That's what he's heard from everyone: his parents, the Specials, his friends, and he's never had a reason to question it before. "You can do whatever you want after..." Q-Tip is silently shaking his head, and John stops.  
  
"At first, yeah. Not for long, though," Q-Tip says. "They stick you in a shitty job, pick someone for you to marry, and have you crank out two-point-five kids. Status quo, man, and if you try to rebel...well, there are reeducation facilities for that."  
  
Those stories are rarely ever told, and whispered quietly in the middle of the night when they are. It's always a friend of a friend, or a distant relative; John's never met anyone with solid intel on what happens in those camps.  
  
"I don't want this. Everyone says the parties and girls and drugs are fun…" (and if anyone would be itching to live that life, it'd be Q-Tip) "...but that has to get old eventually, right?"  
  
John doesn't really agree, or he doesn't know enough about the subject to agree, so he shrugs his shoulders. "Everything gets old eventually," he says. That has to apply to girls. Probably.  
  
"Here's the short version: I'm not staying here. Lilley told me some stuff that made me think for myself, and I don't think what the government does is okay. An' I want you to come with me."  
  
 _Go_  with  _him?_  All John's ever wanted is to be normal, and he's going to have that chance very soon. But he finally made a real friend, not just someone who'll hang with him to kill time or someone who tolerates him because of proximity, and this friend just invited John to have what could be the greatest adventure of his life.  
  
"They'll track us down, though," slips out of John's mouth before he can help it, and he hates it, though it would've come up in conversation eventually.  
  
Q-Tip looks sympathetic for once. "I know you want to fit in," he says. His thigh presses against John's and the heat of it is distracting. "But you don't belong here. Really. You're smart, and you're good, but you want more freedom, right? You gotta."  
  
"Maybe?" John replies. "Probably, I just…how do you know things will be better wherever it is that you're going."  
  
"People I trust," Q-Tip answers. "And you should trust me. Do you want to make your own life, or do you want to live the one someone else picked for you? Simple as that. Time to make up your mind, bro."  
  
 _Now?_  John shakes his head. "I have to think about it," he explains. "This is a lot to take in at once, you know?"  
  
"Okay," Q-Tip says, but he sounds really skeptical. "I have to leave in two days, though. So I'll need an answer by tomorrow night at the latest—if you do come, we gotta get a pack for you. And an alibi, so they don't start lookin' for you for a few days."  
  
"Right."  
  
Making a decision by tomorrow night seems impossible. It'll affect the next eighty-two (minimum) years of his life, and if he chooses to leave, there's no way he can ever come back. He'll never get to see his parents again, or any of his friends; he'll never get to do any of the things he imagined he would. Wherever Q-Tip is planning on running to has to be far enough away from the city that he thinks he won't get caught, which means the trip is probably dangerous.  
  
"I can't think here," John says. "I'm going back to my room. This is something I have to do alone."  
  
But he doesn't end up going back to his room. It's too confined, filled with too many reminders of the life he'll have if he decides to stay. Instead, he walks out to where there's this fire pit, unusable thanks to years of ignorance. It's right on the edge of the woods, and it's dead silent. The sun's setting over the river in the distance, all oranges and purples against the pale gray of twilight.  
  
He wonders what it'd look like in the wild, and then wonders if where Q-Tip is going is the wilderness, have they all been living in captivity? Is everyone just being controlled by the Specials?  
  
But then, John thinks, the system works. If you get sick, you get good care. If you're unhappy at work, you request a transfer. If your marriage is on the rocks, you get counseling. Sure, taxes are high, but John's only ever seen one or two homeless people in his life, and he knows that very few people have daily struggles. Q-Tip is only focusing on the bad parts of the city, but everything has its positives and negatives.  
  
This is what he goes back and forth between, debating for who knows how long. When his brain finally takes a minute to stop, it's completely dark, and the sky is dotted with hundreds of stars. He's missed dinner and last call completely, but he's too keyed-up to eat.  
  
John is young and dumb and confused, and now, out of nowhere, he's being asked,  _hey, wanna come run off with me to this place neither of us have even been but is supposedly really great?_  and given twenty-four hours to make the biggest decision of his life.  
  
It's fucked up, and of course it's his shitty luck that this is happening  _now_. Six months ago, or a year ago, it would've been so easy to just pack his shit and leave. But it's not six months ago. It's now, and one way or another, John has to figure out what he wants to do.  
  
Walt would know exactly the right thing to say, John's sure. And Lovell, who's been in the city at least a few years, would be supportive no matter what. Q-Tip, on the other hand, is only thinking about himself—what will make him happier—and ignoring how other people will be affected if he runs away.  
  
John can only assume the Specials will get involved, especially since they've already punished Q-Tip for bad behavior. Probably John will be questioned, but he really has no idea where this place is. They can't do anything to him.  
  
 _Shit_. He's been thinking for hours, and he's not really any closer to making a decision than he was when he walked dazed out of Q-Tip's dorm. That's not good, to say the least, and it's getting colder outside. Reluctantly, he starts to head back to his room, dragging his feet in the dirt as he goes. Just for the hell of it.  
  
It’s very clear to John that he has a choice. He can have surgery when he turns eighteen and live the nice life that’s been planned out for him, or he can take an enormous risk and leave the safety of the 'ville, of where he's lived since childhood, for something that might not even exist. But even boiling it down to those simple terms doesn't do anything to clear the fog his head's been swimming in, so John's only idea is to go to bed early and sleep on it.  
  
With the lights in his room all shut off and the blinds open, the lights from across look so close and so bright.  
  
*  
  
Surprisingly, it's past eleven when John finally wakes up. He slept like he was dead, and feels about the same, but didn't manage to figure out how he wants to live his life while dreaming.  
  
His parents will want him to stay, and Q-Tip will want him to go. Asking either of them is no use. He knows it's something he has to do on his own, but it's definitely not easy. It might be easier to think on a full stomach, though, so John heads downstairs for the d-hall's pancake breakfast. Q-Tip isn't there, which makes sense, since he's probably packing or doing whatever the fuck he needs to do so he can run away from adulthood and responsibility.  
  
When John looks up, all the kids have filed in. They all look a little off, faces years away from surgery, and he doesn't feel good thinking that, but he also doesn't want to be ugly.  
  
Then and there, he knows he's staying. Well, staying for a bit, and then having surgery and joining his friends in the city. After all, he's known Q-Tip for a month, if that. Sure, John likes him, but he doesn't know if he can trust him.  
  
He'll go to Q-Tip's room later to break the news; for now, he has absolutely nothing to do.  
  
 As fucking usual.  
  
*  
  
On the short walk over to Q-Tip's building, a lump the size of a grapefruit forms in John's throat, and he's nauseous to the point of dizziness. It makes him wonder if staying is really the right choice, but he's probably just anxious about how Q-Tip will react.  
  
Not well, probably. John could rat him out for the secret boarding and breaking and entering and have Specials with eyes on Q-Tip at all times. He won't, of course—that's not who he is.  
  
It takes three loud knocks for Q-Tip to answer the door, and when he does, he's got earphones in and is trying to tug a shirt over his head without getting all tangled up. Behind him, the room is completely cleared out. There are two rucks on the naked bed, and that's it.  
  
"Hi," John says, or tries to. The word kind of gets stuck in his throat. It doesn't help that Q-Tip scans him up and down, like he did when they first met.  
  
"You're not packed?" Q-Tip asks. "You gotta hurry up. We're leaving before everyone's awake."   "I'm not coming," John clarifies. "I can't leave now. There's…"  
  
"Too much at stake? John, you have it all wrong. Right now, you have nothing to lose. Give it another couple months and sure, you look how they want you to look and you think it's too late, but there's no time like today."  
  
"Jesus, you don't fucking  _get_  it!"  
  
Without meaning to, John's fist slams against the wall, and Q-Tip takes a few steps back, this startled look on his face. He seems afraid John's going to hurt him or lash out somehow, and John hates that it's his fault.  
  
"So explain it to me. Please."  
  
"Everything I ever dreamed of is just across the river. Can you really expect me to abandon it? And we barely...what if something happens on the way, you know? I didn't think we'd really stay close forever. You can't tell me you thought that, Q-Tip."  
  
"I can't believe I actually thought you were different. Fine. Whatever. Go back to your fucking status quo friends and live your boring life." He stands up as if to shove John out, but that's not happening.  
  
"Okay, now  _you_  explain it to me," John insists. "This isn't the end of the world."  
  
"Fuck, I can't believe you haven't noticed. Are you really that stupid?" Glancing down at the floor, Q-Tip shakes his head. Mostly under his breath, he mumbles that he's the stupid one, and John instantly disagrees, and loudly.  
  
It's surreal. He's got more-than-friends feelings for Q-Tip, but never in a million years did he think he'd act on his feelings, or that Q-Tip felt the same way about John as John felt about him.  
  
"Look, I should probably go," he says, not wanting to make the situation more awkward than it already is. "I really do hope you find what you're looking for."  
  
Fingers lock around John's wrist just after he steps out of Q-Tip's room. The idea of Q-Tip kidnapping him and dragging him along crosses his mind, but it'd be pretty fucking difficult. He's surprised, though, when Q-Tip shoves him around so they're facing each other, and steps forward without meaning to.  
  
Q-Tip's free hand comes up to John's face, fingers brushing the side of it. His palm's open like he might suddenly reel back and hit John, but that's not what happens. Instead, he digs his nails in just the slightest bit so that his hand is resting on John's cheek.  
  
There are only a few inches between their faces, and John doesn't pull back. It feels like a daze, like a dream, where there's no logic or time and they weren't yelling at each other minutes before. Especially because when Q-Tip coaxes John forward the last little bit until their lips are touching. It's just this side of too hard, their cracked lips bumping and shifting.  
  
When Q-Tip moves his head so John has to move his, too, and opens his mouth, John can't say he's surprised. It makes uncharted territory feel familiar, letting Q-Tip show him the way and mimicking what he does. It feels good to have Q-Tip's fingers running across his scalp, nails scratching a little, affirming his presence.  
  
His head hits the wall with a loud  _thunk_ , and it's only then does he realize that it's because Q-Tip shoves him over here and the rest of John's body follows, and not that comfortably, either. He's let go of John's wrist in favor of cupping his face, and he's licking into John's mouth like he can't get enough. Their bodies aren't really touching (not from the neck down, at least), but it's a close enough thing, and John can feel a flicker of warmth in his belly.  
  
John's only been kissed a few times, and never like this. This one is passionate and intense; if they weren't mad at each other, it'd be perfect. It feels like how John thinks kissing should feel, not like the nervous, awkward ones with girls. And then something clicks. He feels grounded and weightless at the same time, like he's floating but not in zero gravity.  
  
If it weren't for John's burning need to breathe, he could've gone on kissing Q-Tip for who knows how long. When he does, blood rushes to his brain and he remembers that they're mad at each other and probably shouldn't be doing this.  
  
He apologizes, though he's not sure what for—he's not the one who initiated the kiss—and backs away in a haze.  
  
"Don't be. Maybe now you got an incentive to come," says Q-Tip, face open and hopeful. His hand's resting on John's shoulder, just enough pressure for it to be felt.  
  
John hesitates, just for a second. It doesn't matter. Q-Tip's expression has already turned bitter. The anger in his eyes indicates that he wants John to leave. Probably a smart choice, at this point.  
  
"You're such a fucking  _coward_ , John," he sneers, pushing him out. The door slams behind his quickly-retreating back.  
  
A bunch of little kids come, wide-eyed, out into the hall to see what happened. John gives them a harsh glare and bolts. Even if he tried, he probably couldn't feel worse. He races back to his dorm, ducking off-duty teachers and scrawny pre-puberty kids. He locks his door, kicks off his shoes, and lies in his clothes on top of the covers until he finally manages to shut the world out and get some fucking sleep.  
  
*  
  
The next morning is fine, until he remembers what happened last night, which takes all of two minutes. And then he summarily feels like shit. He yelled at his best friend, kissed him, and got a door slammed in his face.  
  
Going over and trying to apologize would be pointless, since Q-Tip's bound to have left already, if not hours ago. John goes over to the door anyway, where he sees a scrap of paper that's been slipped underneath. It's crumpled, like it's been passed to more than a few people before reaching him, and someone's left a numbered list of neatly printed words, kind of in code. Q-Tip must have left it for him.  
  
Directions to wherever the fuck he left for.  
  
He still wants John to come with him.  
  
After last night, it's a shock, to say the least, and it's almost enough to send John running after him right now, but he can't. He'll be happy soon. His future is certain. He just needs to wait it out.  
  
Seventy-one days. Seventy-one more long, boring, solitary days, and John will be truly free.  
  
A week passes like John sleepwalks through it, and then another one. He's restless, curious about if Q-Tip's found the place he's looking for, physically or metaphorically. Sometimes he thinks he'll get a ping on his wallscreen, or even a postcard in his mailbox.  
  
It doesn't happen.  
  
Expectations suck. Someone always ends up disappointed.  _Shouldn't it be a different someone for once?_  he wonders.  _When is it his turn to be truly happy?_  
  
*  
  
That, of course (combined with endless stretches of free time), eventually prompts John to start doubting his decision. It's the biggest thing he's had to figure out so far, and he's not even eighteen. How can he be expected to make up his mind about something like this?  
  
Then again, Q-Tip did it. Since the day they met, John's thought of him as someone who has his shit together. He's definitely not wishy-washy. He's not even a thinker, really. Q-Tip will decide to do something and then fucking do it, all-out with no regrets.  
  
John's not like that, though, and he can't force himself into the mold of someone he's not. Even if he wants to be brave and reckless and shit, he doesn't have the guts to leave. Q-Tip wouldn't have understood that.  
  
On the other hand, Q-Tip might've been so pissed because he knew John could do it, if he wanted to. Maybe John's got a secret confident side that no one but Q-Tip has seen.  
  
Shit.  
  
He can only handle a little bit of heavy thinking and self-doubt at a time, so he wanders around the campus, talking to as many people as he can to distract himself. It works, mostly, though it doesn't feel good. It's like trying to not scratch an itch that's bothering the fuck out of him; the more he tries not to think about it, the more he wants to.  
  
But sooner (rather than later), his thoughts bubble up whether he wants them to or not. Going with Q-Tip could've been the best thing John could have done, and now he'll never know. What if Q-Tip was right about beauty being constructed by society and none of them are actually ugly or something? Labeling people always struck John as a little weird, to be honest, but he never thought he should be questioning the government. There wouldn't have been any of that if he left, which sounds like a pretty positive way to live.  
  
Is it too late to go? And how is he supposed to know the answer to his own damn question?  
  
*  
  
A few days full of difficult thought processes later, John starts the pre-op routine the doctor gave him. Even if he decides to skip town and the procedure and meet up with Q-Tip, having a completely clean system can't hurt. The—shit, what is the place even called? a town—operates under the radar and probably serves all organic food, not like the big nutrition corporations paid by the government. But for the next eight weeks, John's supposed to eat "natural": low sugar, sodium, and fat. As little processed stuff as he can, and definitely not pizza.  
  
Like he said, life is fucking  _rough_.  
  
*  
  
Lunch (veggie cubes and plain chicken) sucks, especially with all the little kids staring at him like he's a freak. Just after it lets out, John's called into the dorm head's office. He's handed a message from someone pretty fucking high up in Special Ops, asking for "assistance in locating a person of interest with whom John was well-acquainted."  
  
The bottom of his stomach drops out.  _At least they're not torturing him_  is John's next thought. But the files he—they—stole must be pretty damn important if the authorities want to find him; Q-Tip said a lot of the data they keep is useless and doesn't need to be kept classified.  
  
What the fuck has he gotten himself into? Next they'll be actual Operatives coming to get him in the middle of the night, hauling him off to a remote site where he'll never be seen or heard from again.  
  
 _Okay_ , his logical side tells his emotional one,  _you're overreacting_. And he is. But he's heard horror stories about cousins or friends of friends who got mixed up with the wrong people and the next thing someone knew, they'd pretty much dropped off the face of the country.  
  
What he should do is send a ping to his parents and beg them for help. They're not agents or anything (far from it), but his dad's head of the Economics Department at the local university. It's a safe bet that he'll have at least one friend in a high place.  
  
Better yet, John could try to act like a real adult for once—isn't that what he's so desperate to be? He'll take a day to collect himself and his thoughts, then march right into Ops Headquarters with Q-Tip's hand-me-down directions and all the information John has about him.  
  
The only problem with that plan is the part where he heartlessly sells out Q-Tip. The guy who's opened his eyes and showed him a different side to...well, everything. It's just not okay, and John's never been a particularly moral person. He has to come up with a third option that isn't turning himself over to the government for conspiracy to leave unauthorized and accepting whatever punishment they deem is appropriate. If he pleaded with them, his parents would let him hide for a few days, but John would be found eventually.  
  
He might be even worse off if he's found on their terms. Or...he could do his damn best to avoid being found at all, because he's sure that even something as minor as this will have his name flagged in the system until he dies. It could fuck up his job and housing placements.  
  
He could run. Of course, John would never be able to live a normal life: contact his parents or friends, work his way up through the ranks after getting the partying out of his system, grow old and reap the rewards that come from paying into the system. He'd never be able to come back, either.  
  
Instead, he'll live in constant danger of being captured, and probably never stay in one place for very long. His name will go on a blacklist and he'll have a price on his head, higher if he starts taking part in the rebellions, the ones the government can't cover up. There are very few things that'll stay the same.  
  
But being free...that just might be worth it. No regulations or laws, no curfews, and no responsibilities. And seeing Q-Tip again, which would be the best part of all.   
  
He'll do it. It'll be his giant fucking leap of faith. John is going to run.  
  
Holy shit.  
  
*  
  
The following days hold a metric fuckton of logistical issues and planning. Sure, he's got directions, but he has no idea what "mind the gap" means in the context of the journey. Is there going to be a cliff he should take care not to fall from?  
  
John knows that he can’t explain the situation to his parents, not even with a letter, so he just prays that they’ll understand one day.  
  
He'll definitely need to leave in the middle of the night, after all the dorm monitors are asleep, but during the key party hours, so city police will be kept busy controlling them. And he'll have to leave soon, before the Specials start digging for information on him. Like,  _very_  soon. People are already suspicious enough.  
  
So he kicks into high-gear. Easy, actually, considering it's not like he has a busy schedule and a full course load. In the space of just over twenty-four hours, John: disposes of all the things in his room he's realized are meaningless, packs the bare essentials into a sturdy rucksack, breaks into the kitchen after hours to stock up on meal substitutes, and steals a hoverboard and other equipment he'd probably need for, like, camping or whatever.  
  
The whole process would've been a lot easier if he weren't doing it alone. He knows he should've left when he had the chance the first time around—he's never been great with directions, or being on his own, and it would've prevented the huge fight he and Q-Tip had—but he's seeing everything clearly now. That's what counts, right?  
  
John's plan comes together much better than expected. To his surprise, the special-permission weekend pass to the city he requests is granted; as extra insurance, he tells Trombley he'll be hitting up some crazy parties and might end up staying until Tuesday, maybe later. Just to buy himself a little more headway.  
  
*  
  
It's cold and dark when John slips out of the dorm as quietly as possible. He's removed anything that could be used as a tracking device, and is carrying only the bare essentials, plus a family photo and fifteen or twenty credits.  
  
The directions say he's to go to the woods, but walk in the opposite direction from the city. John's never been in that area before, since they've always been told it was off-limits. Going through, he can sort of see why—there are all kinds of raised roots that seem to have come out of the ground only to trip him, and lots of low-hanging branches that he has to push his weight against to pass through. It sort of feels like he's in one of those old horror movies, and he tries to hurry this leg of the trip.  
  
When he makes it past where there's a complete cover of leaves, the moon's shining bright against the dark sky, lighting the way for where John's supposed to go next, which is along the river. Until it splits, at least, and he hasn't read what comes after; for now, the sound of rushing water tells John everything he needs to know.  
  
In the morning, John stops to eat, trying to figure out how much of his daily ration he can have now. He's tired, but he's got a long path ahead of him, so he'll probably need to eat again tonight. The idea of sleeping during the day is kind of weird, yet that doesn't stop him from passing out with the blanket half over him.  
  
*  
  
The sun is still up when he wakes, though just barely, and it's cooling down quick. He rips into one of the MREs he stole from the kitchen's emergency food supply, tearing into the package of peanut butter crackers and bag of sour candy. With any luck, the sugar will give him enough of a rush to last through the night, and then he'll have something else in the morning.  
  
He really wishes he'd been left better directions. "Go twenty steps forward and follow the path" is pretty ambiguous at fucking best, and a complete crapshoot at worst. Steps are an objective unit of measurement, he knows, and in the dark, it's hard to see the path unless there's a physical barrier showing him.  
  
So though John's not all that clumsy, he ends up tripping a lot (including over himself), a result of the unfamiliar terrain. At this rate, the head start John tried to give himself might not mean anything; the going is slow.  
  
The hoverboard would've cut time and energy spent, but John realizes after trying it that there aren't any metal deposits in the ground. It's dead weight, so he ditches it in the woods, burying it under leaves. His fingerprints are on it, after all, and it's not like he can wipe them off or smash the thing.  
  
Maybe, he lets himself think when his body starts to protest the physical exertion, Q-Tip left John some sort of tips or clues along the way. He really hopes so, though it's unlikely, because days on end of walking is really going to take a toll on him. Pushing past the exhaustion gives him a rush of adrenaline around sunrise, which is just long enough for John to cover a little more ground, and then stumble upon what looks like an abandoned campsite.  
  
There's no one around. It's quiet, save for the forest noises, and the open tent is empty. Coals are smoking in the empty fire pit, still glowing red and orange, keeping the pot above it warm. Looking around for people, John finds no one, so he steps closer and takes it, practically inhaling the soup.  
  
It's rich and thick, probably tomato, and he finds bread to go with it. Then, full and exhausted, he crawls into the tent and covers himself with the blankets, hoping to God that he makes it through the day without being found.  
  
*  
  
Clearly, someone somewhere is watching out for John. It's warm and not quite dark when he wakes up; more importantly, he didn't wake up to anyone storming the campground angrily at John having invaded their space. And the river close by seems clear enough to wash in, so he does. Who knows when his next chance to do so will be?  
  
His breakfast of stale biscuits and bland granola don't even cancel out the awesomeness of the day, which has barely started. With any luck (and decent navigating), John can make it through most of the night, stop for lunch or dinner, and find another good place to sleep during the day. This might not be so bad after all.  
  
A few hours in, he starts to think he's jinxed himself. Everything looks the same—it's a fucking forest; how is he supposed to distinguish a landmark?—and the temperature's quickly dropped. He's definitely lost and going the same loop over and over, and the sky is getting darker.  
  
The worst part is knowing that there's no one John can turn to for help. He's completely alone out here. If he died, no one would find his body for weeks, probably. It's kind of ironic: he wanted to badly to be on his own, independent in the city, and now he's alone and scared shitless.  
  
Trying to refocus, regain his sense of direction, John rips open the powdered hot chocolate mix and puts some water in a cup, giving him something closer to a liquid cake or brownie.  
  
He rereads the directions once again, then pockets them and walks straight ahead, towards the mountains. After all, the worst that can happen is he gets lost again, right? They're bright in the darkness, far-off and capped with snow. Maybe he can reach them tonight, or by the next one.  
  
A couple miles disappear under his feet, and the faint sounds of rushing water slowly comes seeping into John's consciousness. He's going in the right direction. No matter what, the paper said, always follow the river, and he is.  
  
By morning, the sound is almost second nature to him: water skimming over rocks, fish fighting the current, a shift in direction. He wonders if it's drinkable, but that thought's lost to exhaustion and hunger, the latter dealt with by the "hot" part of his MRE—spicy pasta, which is definitely spicy, probably because it's kind of dense and chewy.  
  
The former isn't an issue when John finally, for some reason, remembers he packed (stole) a thermal, lightweight sleeping bag. As long as he keeps it dry and pretty clean, it's as good as uranium.  
  
Climbing into it after his especially difficult night is amazing, the material thick and warm over his sore body. There's even a boulder for him to hide behind, and John drifts off to sleep feeling safe.  
  
*  
  
Everything else is uphill, literally and figuratively. Rest doesn't do much for the ache in his calves, the way his stomach muscles burn. It's not like John thought at least five days of solo travel in a completely uninhabited area of the country would be easy; it's just that it's a hell of a lot more difficult than he expected.  
  
Whoever redesigned geography and environment and everything had a serious masochistic streak, because in two days, he's had to make his way through rough mountains, cold and uneven, before dealing with the heat of valleys and the harshness of deserts, only to cross the river he's been following this whole fucking time.  
  
And nobody fucking warned him that when he'd have to do it, it'd be a lot wider and faster than before, and freezing to boot. Shivering almost violently when he's done, dripping wet and pissed-off, John adds a heat tablet to a cup of river water and sticks a tea bag in, figuring it's the best way to warm up without soaking a blanket.  
  
The sky is clouded over, sun barely peeking through, but that doesn't stop John from stretching out in the grass, hoping to dry off faster. But when it's clear that the weather isn't on his side, John resigns himself to majorly fucking up his travel schedule, already delayed by the difficult ground—it's that, or walk the next leg uncomfortably wet, and probably chafe all over.  
  
So he strips off his wet clothes and leaves them draped over a bush to dry, shivers himself to sleep while thinking about the hypothermia he could develop.  
  
*  
  
There are...birds chirping, which is what eases John from his sleep-wake haze to mostly alert. It's a sound he's only heard about, from people who've done government-run camping expeditions and in movies, since the county's animal-free. The songs beat a blaring alarm clock any day, and they're the first living things John's found since leaving. Kind of nice, actually, to have some company, even if they can't really talk.  
  
Because of the animals, though, he wonders if he's much closer to the destination than he thought. Actual wilderness would have actual wilderness-y things, and the deeper he gets into it, the farther he gets from home.  
  
His MREs are dwindling, despite his rationing. Almost half the contents are gum, seasoning, powdered drink mix, and candy, which John knows can't sustain him for very long. They seem terrible for his digestion, too. But he doesn't know when he'll get real food, so he eats what he can, forcing it down before gulping water.  
  
All morning, John's careful, very conscious of the fact that it's daylight and he's an easy target. He weaves in and out of the woods, trying to mix safety with speed as he doubles back after intentionally taking a wrong turn. It's hardly an efficient way to do things, and he's on a schedule.  
  
Noon hits, and John realizes two things: (1) If he hasn't been spotted by now, he probably won't be today, and it should be safe to take the straight way through, and (2) Traveling at night serves a dual purpose—not getting heatstroke and not being seen. It has to be at least 32°C, and he's sweating all over.  
  
He takes a short rest under a tree, but realizes he's going to have to go until tomorrow morning if he wants to keep from having to do this again. It's going to be a long fucking haul until night comes and goes, and his energy is waning.  
  
John reminds himself why he's doing this. The end result will be worth all of it. If he doesn't die of exhaustion first, that is. Which, given the heat, is a very real possibility. One he doesn't want to find out the odds of.  
  
*  
  
Finally, just one bullet point is left on the directions. He's almost reached the end. There'll be no more rationing his food, no more long hours of walking, no more worrying about covering his tracks.  
  
Q-Tip is so close.  
  
And John is a free thinker, independent of society, who makes his own decisions. He does things on his own, and he walks miles across hostile country to get to a place where he'll be accepted. Fuck what society says. If that doesn't make him an adult—and a damn-ass responsible one, at that—he really can't imagine that anything else will. Life's going to be harder, for sure, and all because he's choosing it.  
  
It's so simple John wonders if it's not a trap: maybe five miles of wide open plans, dotted with just a few trees. The grass isn't even annoyingly high, the ground firm. Easy by anyone's standards. He could probably do it in his sleep, and since this is it, he allows himself to linger, the moon still plenty high.  
  
The sheet of directions, which is wrinkled from the water and dirty, says that the compound's a short walk on an unpaved path away. He could definitely do it before the sky even starts to lighten, but he doesn't want to chance anything tonight. Most people are sleeping; he can do that now and hope for good luck in the morning, when he knocks on a door and asks to be taken in. Just in case—he doesn't know anyone around here, after all—he sticks his sleeping bag in a cluster of trees and settles in for a couple hours of sleep.  
  
*  
  
First thing in the morning, John changes into his last set of cleanish clothes (he wants to make a good impression, after all), pops his only toothpaste pill, eats an energy bar, and sets out.  
  
Within minutes, a small dirt road springs into view, run-down with use, making John wonder how many people have walked it. Along it are newly-planted trees, the soil around them much darker than what's naturally there. He's definitely going the right way, then, because how else could they have gotten there?  
  
The wooden gate and fence don't exactly look like they could keep anyone out, but within maybe ten minutes of John opening them and making his way down the path, two bulky-looking guys appear to block his path.  
  
"I'm looking for a friend," he says. "Q-Tip, um, Stafford. Is he here?"   One of the guys says something to the other that's too quiet for John to hear. After a minute, they say to follow them.  
  
They don't cuff him or hold his arms, but it's scarily similar to how he imagines walking into Ops HQ. But the guys aren't rude, exactly. Just cold, and probably doing their jobs how they're trained to. It's a pretty short walk through the fields and farm area, and then they're in an area that looks like a small town.  
  
He's brought to what he'd guess is the main building, which looks totally different from most of the buildings he's seen. Instead of having sharp, architectural lines and big glass windows, there's a sizable log cabin surrounded by a lush, overgrown garden. There's brightly-colored laundry hanging on a line, and some toys scattered around. It looks more homey and warm than John's childhood house.  
  
The second door is the one they steer him towards, one of them knocking once before entering without waiting for a response. A young woman sits behind the polished mahogany desk, slim fingers flying across her tablet. She doesn't raise her head, lashes fanned out across her cheeks.  
  
"And who are you?" she asks. Her accent is completely unfamiliar to John, but it's kind of hot. Or it would be, if he were into girls and not in this situation.  
  
"John Christeson," he says. "My friend Q-Tip Stafford came out here...a few weeks ago, I guess, maybe a month, and told me I should check you guys out, too. So I did."   It takes a long moment for the woman to look up. "Ah, yes," she says, apparently recognizing the name. "Stafford is quite the communicator. Tell me what inspired you to make the journey."  
  
"Well," John starts, taking a deep breath, "it wasn't my original plan. I thought I'd do what I've always done, live the life my parents always told me I'd have. But then I met Q-Tip, and learned a lot. After Q-Tip came out here, someone with Special Ops asked for my help finding him, so I ran, too. Hopefully there's a place for me here?"  
  
A smile tugs at the corners of the woman's lips. "I think we can arrange that," she says, extending her hand. "Welcome. I'm Leila Darzi, head of security. You'll need to be checked for weapons, trackers, and bugs, of course, and our lieutenant will want to meet you, but things should be fine." The smile spreads to the whole length of Leila's mouth, but it's sort of tight, like she's expecting a problem already.  
  
One of the guys, who still hasn't been introduced, pats John down; the way he goes about doing it means that John couldn't hide so much as a pocketknife. But he understands the need for it, and tries not to flinch too much.  
  
John's declared clean, though he sees Leila quietly slip a small pistol into the back of her pants before leading him out of her office. She walks with confidence, her long strides forcing John to power-walk. He notices the heels on her boots and wonders how she does it.  
  
He follows her down a long hallway that's adorned with paintings and photographs, up a carpeted staircase and into a smaller room, where a guy about John's age, maybe a couple years older, sits at a smaller, more beat-up version of Leila's desk, filling up a page with his loopy scrawl. John honestly doesn't know if he's ever seen someone besides a tiny kid write out words.  
  
"LT," Leila says, and the guy looks up, a black streak smearing across the paper as he jerks the pencil. But she doesn't apologize or even acknowledge that. Neither does Desk Guy. "This is John Christeson. We found him maybe half a klick past the entrance. Says he knows one of our new members."  
  
 _This_  is the lieutenant? If John is supposed to like this place and feel safe in it, Desk Guy isn't helping. He's just not very reassuring.  
  
"I've got this from here, Leila," the lieutenant says, handing her a short stack of papers before turning to John. "I'm not really a lieutenant," is the first thing he says to John. "My name's Nate Fick.   
  
"But you're in charge?" John asks. "That's why they call you that, right?"  
  
"Well, yes. A friend came up with it when we started up and I can't seem to shake it. I'm not the only one in charge, either." The LT stands, pushing back his chair. "Let me show you around."  
  
Once he's up and navigating them down the opposite hallway from where John came in, through a maze-like series of rooms and out into the backyard, John kind of gets it. The LT seems older and more intelligent; it's easier to see him in charge of the place.  
  
He has short brown hair, and something about him just seems really welcoming and open. Maybe it's the interesting mix of what he's wearing (a loose, multi-striped pullover hoodie John's seen in old pictures; jeans; and scuffed combat boots) or maybe it's his ridiculously earnest expression.  
  
"I'm really glad you decided to join us after all. Evan's told me so much about you," the LT says. "Let me show you around. We just left the main complex, which is where the larger offices are, as well as some bedrooms, the kitchen, and communal space."  
  
Briefly, John wonders who the fuck Evan is and how he knows him, then remembers it's Q-Tip's real name. "Sorry, where is...what's this place even called?" John asks. Most of the 'ville's surrounding area is in Saint Petersburg County, which is apparently named for some huge city that was there before the big rebellion, and the towns have generic names—South Pinemont, Ashwick Valley. Bo-fucking-ring.  
  
"Kenton," answers the LT, leading John over to the garden. "This is the smaller one. It's technically for individual use, but since we supply the seeds, sharing is encouraged. "It sounds really glamorous, I know, but I've read a lot of alt-history books about some of the former global superpower countries."  
  
John's heard about non-standard history books once or twice, but talk about things like that is always dismissed quickly. The government, Q-Tip told him once, wants to keep people knowing as little about the past as possible. Even, or especially, details about the rebellion, which are passed back and forth like gold between close friends and tiny groups.  
  
"If you have any, I'd love to read them," John says. Now that he can read whatever he want, he plans to learn the truth. He came all the way out here on hope and a wish, but the last thing he wants is to stay naïve forever.  
  
"Sure," the LT says, grinning, like he can't wait to show someone else. "These—" he gestures at two smaller buildings "—are the living quarters. Fully equipped with showers, laundry supplies, and mini-kitchens."  
  
He must notice the look of confusion on John's face, because the LT stops walking and says, "Wow, you really _don't_  know what's going on here."  
  
"No," John agrees, grateful someone's realized that.  
  
"We're basically an open community of like-minded people who, for one reason or another, chose to seek out a different lifestyle," the LT explains. The government calls places like ours radical or subversive—among other things—but Bryan and I wanted to establish something based on individuality and healthy relationships."    
  
John's shocked. "There are other places like this?" he asks. "How?" It's surprising even a small group of people would be able to live under the radar like this, let alone this community, which he'd guess has at least fifty residents.  
  
The LT laughs, warm and easy. "That's how we do it. Ideally, more people in conflict would know about us and be able to come if they needed to. But since most of the public has no idea that huge cities aren't the only place they can live, there's not a lot of buzz about us, and when an agent finds out about us, we're not seen as a huge threat and can go on living. Granted, sometimes there are raids—El Bloque had to split up a few weeks ago—so everyone here is prepared to leave with not much notice. If they have to, that is. The Gunny makes sure everyone's happy."  
  
Whoever the Gunny is, he sounds intimidating and vaguely military. John hopes "keeping everyone happy" isn't like how the Specials keep everyone "happy."  
  
"The rules are pretty simple. If you only remember one, it's respect—people, property, whatever. Everyone is here because they want to be, so you're expected to pitch in and help when you're asked to, even if you can't stand doing dishes. Your past doesn't matter here, and believe me, a few of us have pretty colorful ones. As long as it doesn't start conflicts, nobody cares, and don't do that anyway."  
  
"I can do that," John says, nodding. He's never had to live by rules that were so rational and seemingly necessary. Doing so shouldn't be any big feat. "And what about living arrangements? I have a few credits, but…"  
  
The LT smiles. "They won't be any good here. You're welcome to stay as long as you like, provided you put in thirty-five hours of work on the grounds per week. We're two or four to a room, depending, and all your meals and necessities are covered by the labor."  
  
While John's never worked a day in his life, for an honest cause, he's happy to.  
  
"I'm definitely in, just in case that wasn't clear before," John tells him. The LT shakes his hand and gives him an official welcome, says that he's not sure where Q-Tip is but there's someone John should meet.  
  
He brings John to this tiny cabin, probably no bigger than a room, and actually bothers to knock—and wait for a response—before going in. There's a weapons rack on one side of the room and a lot of tech stuff on the other. And in the middle of it all is a guy wearing pieces in his ears and doing repairs on a tablet.  
  
"Brad," the LT says, pulling the headphones off and the guy into a standing position. "This is John. He's new."  
  
"Clearly," Brad says dryly, which earns him a nudge in the side and a whisper to be  _nice_. He's stone-faced, muscles tense. He's definitely older than the LT, and looks more like a leader, tall and focused. Even though summer's past, he's dressed for heat and hard labor.  
  
According to the LT, Brad is second in charge and the first person, shockingly, John should go to if he runs into any trouble. Brad gives the LT this long-suffering glare that seems to have a little of something else behind it.  
  
"I'm in the middle of giving John a tour of the place," the LT says to Brad, touching Brad's wrist so quickly John almost misses it. "You should help. And you'll probably see him more than I will." Turning to John, the LT clarifies. "I've gotten stuck with more of the management stuff, especially at the rate we're taking on new members. That's why I need Brad to be out and around the grounds, making sure everything's running smoothly."  
  
"I make sure he remembers that," says Brad, his expression lightening up some. "Back there's the control room. "The supplies are...well, we make do out here. Let me know if you think you can help out as a systems op or something."  
  
John nods silently. Probably not, since he has no idea what one would do. But maybe he could learn?  
  
Brad laughs when John suggests this. "There's just not enough time to teach you. Not when you could be helping out with something else."  
  
"Sure," John says. "So how long have you been here?"  
  
"  A little over a year specifically with the LT, but I was out west with a similar group before that. I've been away from the Bay Area since I was twenty-one, though."  
  
When he doesn't elaborate, John doesn't push. He wonders, momentarily forgetting that he's supposed to be walking and listening to the LT talk about their life here. Once he jolts back to reality, he listens to them interrupt each other as they explain the work rotation, how everyone's shifts are staggered so someone's always up and their position is never vulnerable.  
  
Before he knows it, they've looped around the buildings and pastures and everything and they're back on the path near Leila's office.  
  
"You probably want to see Stafford," the LT says, "and you're probably pretty tired, but we're actually short today. Gunny's wife is on bed rest, so he's with her today. It'd be really great if you could help us out, and then we'll make sure one of your shifts this week is a shorter one."  
  
"You can't put him in the fields, Nate," Brad says quietly. "Look at him. That's a recipe for disaster."  
  
"How about we start you in the kitchen? We could always use more help getting dinner ready," the LT suggests.  
  
When he was really little and lived with his parents, John used to help his mom cook and bake things. Granted, she did most of the work and he made a lot of messes, but even though he's out of practice, he'll probably be fine.  
  
An insanely muscled, perfect-looking guy named Rudy greets John in the kitchen with a warm hug and a bright smile.  
  
"Welcome, brother," he says. "It's always a pleasure to bring new friends into my home."   
  
 _The kitchen is his home?_  
  
But it's a really efficient one at that. Rudy has an assembly line set up, people washing and chopping and mixing. Someone opens the stainless-steel oven and a delicious smell wafts out. The ingredients probably couldn't be fresher if Rudy tried.  
  
John's handed a bowl of salad to toss, pasta to stir when he's done. It's very clear that in their little village (or the kitchen, at least), things are the way they are because they work, not for any arbitrary reason. Cooking and setup are run like an assembly line, but it's not mechanical. People are talking and laughing and joking, swapping tasks without asking if they get bored.  
  
There's a lot to do, but everyone pitches in; when dinner's done, though, Rudy splits the group in three: table, dessert, and breakfast. John's put in the table group, where someone shows him the fastest way to set it, how to pour drinks and serve food efficiently without spilling. It seems like there's way too much out, but he doesn't know how many people live here, so it's hard to tell.  
  
Tomorrow's breakfast is just going into the fridge (apparently so little electricity's used here that the government doesn't notice anything off) when the dinner rush starts, so many layers of conversation happening that John starts to get a headache. But when he finally gets the okay to find his own seat, someone taps him on the shoulder.  
  
It's Q-Tip, he sees when he turns around.  
  
"Hey!" John says loudly, making sure he can be heard. "I…" he doesn't want to say he came here out of self-preservation; that could start them off (again) on the wrong foot. "You were right, Q-Tip. The 'ville's weird. I changed my mind."  
  
"I'm Evan now," Q-Tip says. "I wanted a change, and Rudy showed me ways to not think negative things about my name."  
  
Clearly, "Evan" wanted more than just one change. His hair's longer and a little floppy. He's got a decent tan and has put on a few pounds of muscle, which are evident even under his fucking plaid shirt and ripped jeans (which, since when?). But he looks happy, so John should be happy for him.  
  
And also glad that this isn't some kind of cult.  
  
Probably.  
  
"Oh." John can't quite seem to close his mouth. He's not sure how he's supposed to take the news, or the changes; Q-Tip—Evan—looks good, but it's also different and kind of weird. He's not used to this person yet, since the physical changes probably indicate some personal ones, too.  
  
"Everyone here calls me that, anyway. But if you don't want to, Q-Tip is okay, I guess," he explains.  
  
"Good," John says, glad for a relief from the awkwardness. He goes in for a hug, one-handed and a little stiff, and isn't rejected. "Good to see you. I'm glad you got here in one piece."    
  
"Youu too, bro," Q-Tip laughs. "I figured you wouldn't get very far even if you changed your mind."  
  
"Well, look how wrong I proved you." He doesn't mention that making the trip was pretty fucking difficult, just that he's excited for this new chapter.  
  
"The hard part's over," Q-Tip says. "Seriously, mountains  _and_  a desert? Even fieldwork is easy in comparison. Come on, dinner looks good."  
  
It's not at all like how dinner was in the dorm dining hall, save for the large number of people. There are no noise limits, no portion control, and everyone is happy. Someone passes a bottle of red wine to John, regardless of the fact that he's not yet old enough to drink. He does anyway, and he thinks it's good wine.  
  
Rudy's next to him, and Q-Tip's a few seats down, so John alternately hears about the best mind/body training regimen and descriptions of the people who live here. Someone named Pappy, apparently, has the weirdest sayings, and Doc, who's sitting near the LT, has just gotten back from a weeklong excursion treating kids in what he says is a rural area, maybe a day away by bullet train.  
  
John wouldn't have guessed that a train would stop this far out—wouldn't that sort of defeat the purpose of keeping Kenton a secret?—but Q-Tip tells him there's a station two hours east on foot, and infrequent use doesn't make anyone suspicious.  
  
For whatever reason, John is...captivated, for lack of a better word, by Leila. She's a couple seats over from Q-Tip; as he rambles on, it gets easier to ignore him. Not that John didn't miss him, but they're still kind of weird right now and there's someone new and interesting literally just out of John's reach.  
  
Maybe it's the way she's teasing Brad, pushing his buttons without making him truly angry. He smiles and laughs, ducking away when she tries to ruffle his hair. Maybe it's how she seems to engage everyone around her, capturing their attention. Or it could be the fact that she's not holding back food-wise, sampling almost everything on the table, and doing it without looking like a slob. She's elegant.  
  
Shit, maybe John isn't just into guys? Q-Tip is talking to someone else, profile strong and eyes animated. A few weeks ago, John would've been riveted, but now his attention's on Leila. If this is another identity crisis, he's not going to be happy.  
  
The doors open, and another woman walks in. He hasn't noticed that many at the table, and since their classes and dorms were single-gender back at the 'ville, situations like these are still kind of novel. Almost immediately, Rudy leaves his seat and goes over to sweep her in a huge hug; her feet leave the ground completely and her light hair flutters around her face.  
  
When she's finally set back on the ground, she steps into the heavy black boot that'd fallen off her foot, and hits Rudy in the arm without flinching.  
  
"You know I hate it when you crush my lungs," she says sternly, but cracks a smile and tells Rudy she missed him. It seems like she's going around the tables to check in with everyone. John figures he'll meet her when she comes this way, so he tunes back into Q-Tip's never-ending story.  
  
"Good to meet you," she says, leaning against Rudy's chair. "I'm Caroline. I've been out on a supply run for most of the week, which is why this one's smiling so much. He's like a puppy, I swear."  
  
All John manages to say is his name before Caroline's walking away, moving towards the other side of the table like something's pulling here there. Her eyes light up, and then she's standing beside Leila, touching her shoulder.  
  
Caroline leans down and presses a kiss to Leila's forehead, one of her hands on the back of Leila's neck and Leila's hands do the same, so intimate it couldn't possibly just be friendly. Then they're moving and kissing more and he thinks he can see a tongue.  
  
If there's ever a time for John to question his (okay, newly-discovered) sexuality, that time is now. He's probably staring and it's definitely rude but Brad's doing the same. Or he is, at least, until the LT does something that's apparently painful with his elbow.  
  
John accidentally catches Q-Tip's eye. He looks irritated at first, then amused.  
  
"Yeah, that happens sometimes," he says. "Or a lot. Whatever. Don't even think about messing with either one of them."  
  
It's a safe bet that Q-Tip's tried that and knows from experience John shouldn't. The idea's funny, but the thought of Q-Tip hitting on someone else makes John's stomach knot.  
  
Fuck, John's sexuality needs to make up its mind already. He's getting metaphorical whiplash. So he does what is probably the best thing to do in this situation: he puts his head down and eats, Rudy interrupting every so often to explain why what's on John's plate is good for him.  
  
After dinner, he learns, is rec time, and with rules much more lax than the 'ville's. The LT gives him a short addition to their earlier tour, explaining that the small closet of alcohol is open to anyone as long as they're responsible. It doesn't matter, apparently, that John hasn't quite reached adulthood.  
  
"Hard drugs are banned," the LT says, face turning serious, "and any planium or smog will get you thrown out, no explanations or second chances. We're not here to keep you from having fun, though, or trying new things, so as long as it's on your own time and doesn't cause problems, lighter stuff is fine."  
  
Having rules that make sense and seem fair to John is really kooked. Definitely not something to complain about, though. Just different. And the LT doesn't seem controlling or dictatorial at all.  
  
"Want to see your new living space?" the LT asks, having lost the seriousness in his eyes. "Your dorm was probably nicer, but we do okay out here."  
  
It's a longish walk from the main building. The great view makes up for it, as does the pond that John's willing to bet is natural, not artificially constructed. It's small in an old-timey kind of way, but there's a bed and a closet, a small table and a candle and a little chest of drawers, so John's really not sure what else he'd need. His roommate isn't Q-Tip, which doesn't seem to be good or bad, at least not yet.  
  
Instead, he gets a guy named Michael Stinetorf, who seems pretty chill, despite his ridiculous mustache. "Stiney," as he tells John to call him, says he'll be happy to help John get acclimated, which is great, since that sounds like a good thing to be.  _Acclimated_. Of course, he'd been planning on making Q-Tip show him the ropes, desperately hoping they'll be able to either go back to normal or pick up where they left off (after the kiss, before the fight).  
  
Power down is at two AM, which is when everyone's expected to be inside (though not necessarily their own building, John notes). Exploring the compound seems like a decent way to kill time and get used to the place, plus he might run into Q-Tip or someone else interesting.  
  
He finds a short row of outdoor showers, black pipes winding like snakes around the area. There's another line for laundry, this one sturdier than the last; a square of worn-down basketball court and a mismatched set of weights, some of them resting on the colorful, painted rack.  
  
Actually, he's probably past due for a shower. There could be, like, usage rules he doesn't know about, so he'll just ask Brad or the LT tomorrow and suck it up in the meantime. It doesn't seem like anyone would particularly care, either way, at least not until John makes the whole place smell terrible.  
  
Next to the rec area is a tiny playground filled with well-used toys and things for kids to climb on. There weren't any kids at dinner, if he remembers correctly, so there's probably not too many.  
  
A smaller, house-like building maybe twenty yards over has colored glass windows that look old and expensive. John bets it's worth seeing what's inside.  
  
The room to his left has bookcases where the walls should be, rows and rows of actual paper and leather and binding. He can't see a tablet anywhere. The table's piled high with them, too, some open or dog-eared and annotated.  
  
The LT probably uses the library a lot, but there's no way the collection came from just a few people. It's more likely that someone brought a few and the number kept growing until an amazing resource was created.  
  
John will have to come back here when he has more time. And when he's not so exhausted. His sore muscles complain, and he can't keep from yawning. When he makes it back to his room, he barely has time to strip off his clothes before he crashes.


	3. Chapter Three

Something loud and metallic-y buzzes over and over. Covering his head with the pillow doesn't change anything, and it continues for a few minutes, so John gives in and gets up. Like magic, the buzzing stops when he's changing into a new pair of boxer shorts. It's a terrible alarm system, but if it works…  
  
While his room doesn't have a clock, time in the wild has helped John better estimate time. It's probably eight or nine, and though he's tired, he's also less tense and achy. The bed must be more comfortable than he originally thought.  
  
Standing in boxers and nothing else, John realizes he has no idea what the weather's like out here. The 'ville had some kind of yearlong average that held steady, for the most part, but they can't have that here. He throws on jeans, an old shirt, and boots, heads for breakfast.  
  
After, he stands there a little awkwardly (is he supposed to help in the kitchen again?) but Brad says he'll show John where he can find his work schedule. Outside the main command office is a board with the master list, John's name scribbled in several different places with a note that says he'll be officially added at the end of the week. He's on cleaning duty this morning, and when he checks, finds Q-Tip's name there, too.  
  
First, Q-Tip explains when they meet up, they have to hit up the supply closet for buckets and rags and mops and "that shit." There's a specific order they're supposed to go in, he says, and doesn't say anything about breaking the rules.  
  
Maybe now he gets why they're sometimes necessary, though he claims it's because he doesn't want to piss Caroline off. And John gets that. She seems like she's not afraid to kick ass.  
  
They're all alone right now, with post-breakfast cleanup to do before heading outside. John talks to fill the silence, not getting much of a response from Q-Tip, who seems distant. He doesn't want to push the subject if it's sore. Maybe—and John hates the thought as soon as it pops into his head—Q-Tip realized he doesn't want John here after all, but can't exactly say so. Not after John came all this way to stay out of trouble.  
  
John wishes he could figure out what between them changed. They're hardly connecting, even over stories about the other people here. Q-Tip's slang has morphed into something John can barely recognize, but he doubts that's the problem. Apologizing might make things even worse; John hesitates to do so.  
  
Partly to find out and partly to make conversation, John asks, "What's the deal with the showers? I mean, are their certain times we can use them? And the black pipes are weird."   
  
"Thermal energy, bro." Q-Tip looks almost offended by the question, like this isn't something he should have to explain. "Just watch for time. The water'll shut off automatically if you try to use more than the allotted time."  
  
"Oh." He's not exactly sure what that is, but it sounds good. "When we're done here, I want to use one." If he were bold like Q-Tip is, he'd say  _you should join me_. He keeps his mouth shut.  
  
"Good." Q-Tip moves around the table, sweeping dirt into a pile. "You fucking stink."  
  
 _Are you serious?_  John wants to ask, because he's not having any luck getting a feel for how they're doing.  _What happened?_  Something keeps him from saying more, though, so he cleans until people start coming in for lunch, when he goes back to the residential area and showers, trying to count time in his head.  
  
There's lunch and a rest/quiet hour before more work, which John uses, since he probably needs the sleep. Like yesterday, he does his part and then eats again. One important thing's different, though: he has a beer, and then another, and soon he's lost count of how many he's had and is definitely somewhat drunk, loose-limbed and fuzzy-headed.  
  
It's nice not to have to think, to tamp down all the parts of himself that he does, whether it's out of fear or necessity or something else. Rudy forces him to eat the other half of his turkey sandwich before drinking more, and Brad keeps John semi-focused by telling the story about how he was well on his way to being in Special Ops but ended up here, with Nate, instead.  
  
Most people start to wind down eventually, but John's still floaty and happy, and figures now would be a good time to talk to Q-Tip, since he's all calm. He somehow finds Q-Tip's room, knocks until he's let in. And it might be the beer, but things hardly go as well as he'd hoped for.  
  
"I know," Q-Tip says when John apologizes. "Everyone has to figure out shit on their own. We're okay." But he doesn't look up from his lap to meet John's eyes, and John's buzz is replaced with an uneasiness that sinks into the pit of his stomach.  
  
"Tell me about what you've been doing, then," he asks. "I really want to know. The LT seems—fuck, he seems so smart. Have you seen the library?"  
  
"Yep, he knows a lot." Q-Tip stands, finally making eye contact. "I'm kinda workin' on something right now. I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow, okay?" It's clear that he wants John to leave; it's also clear that they're not actually fine. That's what John came here to fix, and he's not going to leave until the knot in his stomach untwists itself. He misses just hanging out and talking, being made fun of and trying to throw a few insults back.  
  
"It doesn't really seem that way," John says. "You know, when you came out here I was bored out of my  _mind_. Guess I didn't realize how much time we spent together." He pauses, gets nothing, and pushes forward. "So what other work is there? Besides kitchen stuff and cleaning, I mean."  
  
"John, I have fucking babysitting duty tomorrow," Q-Tip says, his voice tight and kind of angry. "Can we not do this now?"  
  
He stands like he's going to leave, but shakily turns and edges Q-Tip in so they're both near the corner. Without thinking about it (a huge mistake, John realizes in hindsight), he tips forward and kisses Q-Tip. He's drunk and imprecise, trying to steady himself with a hand on Q-Tip's shoulder, but it doesn't take very long before he's shoved away, stumbling backwards and nearly falling.  
  
Q-Tip wipes his mouth, spits into the trashcan. "You're fucking schwacked." He sounds disgusted, a knife twisting into John's chest. "We're not going to do this now. Sleep it off, and on the off chance you remember this, we can talk about your mood swings in the morning."  
  
Back at his room, Stiney takes one look at John before shaking his head.  
  
"You gotta be careful," he says, a note of concern obvious in his voice. "Nobody's here to keep you from drinking, or to make sure you don't have too much. Getting used to it takes some time, so don't go crazy. Trust me, I did the same thing when I got here." He pulls John's shoes off and throws a blanket over him.  
  
Drifting off, he can faintly hear some water and pain pills being set on the table beside his bed.  
  
 John's last thought is  _how did everyone here get so nice?_  
*  
  
The next morning, John has a pounding headache and upset stomach and skips breakfast entirely. He doesn't think forcing food into his system is a smart idea, but water probably is. He turns his head and sees a glass next to him, and then he takes the pills for his headache.  
  
According to the schedule he checked yesterday, today's the day John doesn't have to work until the afternoon. Clearly, some higher power's got his back; if he tried to function, he'd probably just...well, he's never been drunk, so he's not sure. But it wouldn't be good.  
  
Later on (after getting sick and sleeping for a bit) he feels well enough to pull on the first clothes he sees and making his way down to the mini-kitchen that Stiney told him is in the basement for some coffee, which makes him feel a lot better. He makes it to lunch after all, finding a seat next to Leila.  
  
"We missed you at breakfast this morning," she says. "But you're feeling now?" After he nods, she says, "Good. There's actually a favor I have to ask of you."  
  
"Uh-huh," John answers, not sure what it could be. The compound has everything set up so well, and he's new here and a complete mess.  
  
"Tell me again how you found us."  
  
It's somewhere between a request and an order, though he gets the sense from her tone that if he doesn't cooperate, he's going to regret it. "My job, as you can imagine, is to make sure that we're secure, and we don't want any—...anyone to just come off the street, so to speak, and into our home."  
  
John firstt thinks this is some kind of intelligence test—make sure everyone here meets some standard, vaguely reminiscent of something the government would do—but he realizes that Leila's genuinely concerned for the members. For herself, too.  
  
"Well, Q-Tip left me...a map, I guess," he explains, "because he left first and I only decided to come a few weeks later."    
  
"Yes, Evan mentioned that." She doesn't look placated yet. "And how was getting here?"  
  
"Not all that easy. The directions weren't too clear, probably on purpose. Plus, you know, the geography here's a lot different than it was when I was trying to get here."  
  
"Good," Leila says, adding "sorry for your trouble" like an afterthought. "Though I'm glad we don't seem to be at an immediate risk of being found out. You can never be too careful."  
  
"Right," John agrees, trying not to think about what they'd to do him—not only did he run away, he also stole government property.  
  
Doc comes over to formally introduce himself and to request that John see him for a physical and some vaccinations within the next week. The three of them get to talking, and John learns the unexpected way they ended up here. What he really likes, though, is that everyone wants to be here. No one's forcing them, and they could leave right now if they wanted to, without consequences or fear.  
  
It's hard to imagine why Kenton could be a threat to society. The 'ville and its surrounding megacity are painted as the picture of healthy, functional life. But this, he thinks, is what Q-Tip wanted John to figure out before he left. He wanted it to be the  _reason_  John left.  
  
"Gotta go," John says abruptly, knocking over his chair as he stands. Even as he sprints, the library seems so far away. It's open, if empty. He grabs the first book he finds in the historical nonfiction section and leaves a note on the desk saying he took it.  
  
His workday crawls by, long hours of harvesting produce only slowed by his desire to read the book he picked up. Also, he's not used to so much bending and reaching, so much time outside without a break. The lack of sleep and slowly-dropping temperature probably aren't helping, either; he does the best he can, though.  
  
Instead of relaxing during the quick pre-dinner break, John finds a shady spot beneath some trees and finally gets the book out of his pack. It's yellowed and faded, clearly old, but the front cover's still intact. The cover image, protesters screaming at someone in a gas mask, is so striking he almost misses the title.  
  _Coming Around Again: The Last Revolution_  by Evan Wright.  
  
The book is thick, easily four hundred pages, heavy with the weight of history. He flips it over and there's another photograph, this one of a city in flames, a short summary across them. Inside, he finds a page with just the title, and then one with a quote.  
  


> "Society is held together by our need; we bind it together with legend, myth, coercion, fearing that without it we will be hurled into that void, within which, like the earth before the Word was spoken, the foundations of society are hidden."
> 
> James Arthur Baldwin,  _Notes of a Native Son_  
> 

  
  
Chapters are listed on the next page, and there's a lot of them. Out of fear of being disappointed, he almost doesn't move on, afraid of finding out something he doesn't want to know. Not surprisingly, curiosity gets the best of him. John flips the page and starts to read.  
  
Wright starts from what John thinks is the very beginning, some really old Greek tragedy John's never heard of. He talks about civil disobedience and small uprisings throughout Europe (where the fuck were these places?), how the United States became home to people who wanted freedom of religion, and the pockets of people who stayed loyal to Britain during the war.  
  
There's more, most of it completely new to John. He had no idea how extensive slavery was or even an understanding of the real gravity of it. How suffrage sprung from the abolitionist movement, full of hunger strikes and hard-to-miss protests. The 1960s and early 70s were full of protests, the book says, and things were relatively calm until the turn of the millennium. Shit got out of hand after that, then went from bad to worse.  
  
In 2001, John learns, three planes crashed into important buildings located in a key Old World city. A fourth was aimed for the nation's capital, but a group of brave passengers wrestled it out of that path.  
  
This was one of the defining events of the century, but it wasn't what made people start a coup d'état. It shook a country to its core, though, and laid the groundwork for what would come.  
  
None of his teachers ever mentioned anything like this; he sits, gaping, for a few minutes. They taught their classes about ancient explores and breakthroughs in pre-advanced medicine, when man walked on the moon and the post-racial period from late 2008 on. And they did mention bad shit that'd happened in history and how to keep from making those mistakes again, but he's eager to find out what brand new information the book holds.  
  
"But those are just a few countries we're talking about," the author says, "and the US hasn't led the world in years. With just a little backtracking, Wright's picture of the world becomes so much more complete.  
  
A lot of people were killed because of a protest in China in 1989—Wright says there are discrepancies in the numbers, citing "between 180 and 10,000," which is a huge gap but significant either way. Bloody Sunday in Ireland claimed the lives of 27 people, and the Soweto Uprising helped get something called apartheid condemned.  
  
Their teachers taught them about when the new government was formed and all the good things they did, but no one's ever told John how or why. But Wright does.  
  
In hopes of keeping the world together after so many rebellions, the biggest countries joined forces and tried to regain some control, but that weakened them and they were overthrown. The book is an account of a small group of rebels trying to change the world and stay safe while doing it.  
  
Evan Wright describes, in detail, pages and pages of things John had no idea even existed. The book is an account of a small group of rebels trying to change the world and stay safe while doing it. What really sucks John in are the people (characters? They're real, but with identifying details changed.) One of them reminds him so strongly of Q-Tip it's not even funny, and all of them are stubborn and fearless. It makes John want to do something important and revolutionary, to be a better person.  
  
Dinner and last call come and go, and he registers his stomach growl, but ignores it. He can eat at breakfast tomorrow; he needs to read  _now_. He never imagined he'd be so interested in something, though that's what makes Kenton so great: coming in, he had no expectations. Anything can happen now.  
  
He reads until he gets eye strain when the moon becomes his only source of light, and then he reads until he gets cramps from the library's hard-backed chairs. The pages seem to fly under his fingers; the number he has left to read shrinks until he's, somehow, at the last page and wishing there were hundreds more.  
  
The government's keeping so much more from society than people will ever know, and John feels like he's beat the system. He's wiser and more educated, armed with the power of knowledge. Maybe one day he can help make sure everyone can learn the truth.  
  
For now, he has to come back to reality, which is when he realizes he has no idea what time it is. The sky's a deep blue-black, dotted with stars. He's going to be exhausted as fuck tomorrow morning—if he even calms down enough to sleep, that is.  
  
He's bursting with energy, his entire body shaky and unsteady, and still manages to run to Q-Tip's room, tightly clutching the book. It has to be so late, he knows, but he doesn't care. What surprises him (and should it, here?) is that the building's unlocked. He just walks right in and up the stairs to Q-Tip's room.  
  
"Q-Tip, wake the fuck up," John says, only-half trying to keep his voice down. He's extremely grateful Q-Tip doesn't have a roommate. "Come on, wake up."  
  
 "Seriously?" Q-Tip's squinting, hair a complete mess, and still manages to— _not the time_ , John reminds himself,  _not why you're here_.  
  
"I know, I know, but I went to the library earlier today and I got this book that the LT probably would've suggested I read anyway, and holy shit, I feel like a new person."  
  
"Great," Q-Tip mumbles. "'m so happy for you. Now can you please let me go the fuck back to sleep?"  
  
Instantly, John's good mood is gone. They're not on great terms and he just stormed into Q-Tip's room in the middle of the night, expecting him to be as excited as John is. Of fucking  _course_  this is the response he gets.  
  
"Sorry. I'll just see you tomorrow, I guess," John says, slinking out with his head down.  
  
God, why is he such a fuck-up? Why can't he do anything right?  
  
Tossing and turning in his bed, he eventually comes to the realization that his actions are the problem. John's been doing, basically, the same thing over and fucking over while expecting some change. If he wants a different result, if he wants real happiness and normal relationships and shit, he has to do something about it.  
  
Realizing this, oh, a few weeks ago would've made everything a whole fucking lot easier. That didn't happen, though, and at least now he knows. And he's not exactly the most organized person, but he figures he should make a list or something of what he needs to do. It's kind of hard, because his body's exhausted even while his mind's racing, still trying to comprehend what he read in Evan Wright's book.  
  
1\. Either repair his relationship with Q-Tip so they're really okay, or get over the attraction and move on.  
2\. Build relationships with the other people here. They seem great, and the last thing John wants is to isolate everyone over one little problem.  
3\. Learn everything he can about the past.  
  
*  
  
The new day makes him feel a little better, though it also reminds him that he's pretty much out of semi-clean clothes. He should definitely do laundry after dinner; if he asked, Stiney would lend him something, but John doesn't want to borrow from people without anything to lend in return.  
  
When he sees Q-Tip over breakfast, he just smiles and nods, figuring it's the best thing for now. They should probably both cool off, regroup and all that. A little space is good. Or it will be, hopefully. He's running out of ideas.  
  
But he can't shut himself in his room and hide anymore; he has responsibilities. So he cycles through the day (work, lunch, rest, dinner, hanging out and talking with people) and leaves a book he officially checked out of the library on Q-Tip's bed. It's about anarchy and individualism. John hopes he likes it.  
  
*  
  
The routine he falls into here is much better than the scheduled one back at the 'ville. John has variety on a day-to-day basis. He's finally started working in the fields and nearby woods, which is hard, but he likes how natural it feels. Like he could be part of a group that lived hundreds of years ago, surviving because of skill and not amenities.  
  
Sometimes, over lunch or in the evenings, he and Q-Tip talk, but it's never about anything significant and there are always other people involved. They aren't alone; whether that's a good thing or not, he has no clue. Maybe they'll always be sort of in between casual and close—in flux, he thinks it's called.  
  
Just like Q-Tip couldn't exactly wait for John to make up his mind and leave the 'ville, John can't wait until Q-Tip decides not to be mad at him. He's setting up a different future in Kenton, and it's good so far, but the goal wasn't to live solitarily. People here are supposedly like him; he needs to make friends, acquaintances. A support system—not the artificially created one the 'ville shoved at him, but one made up of people who genuinely care. He likes it here. He has to put down roots, and why wait?  
  
One morning, long before breakfast, he goes on a run with Rudy, which is kind of a terrible idea. John vows not to do it again, but can't force himself to leave before he's taught how to correctly breathe and stretch.  
  
While they're replanting some of the garden's vegetables, he works a little bit of Brad's story out, because he's interested and it's a challenge. There's clearly more to Brad than meets the eye, and he only gives up a few details: he was hand-picked to join Special Ops' Counterterrorism Division and got brutally dumped during training. He threw himself into the program and had a promising future, but met Nate somewhere along the way and his eyes were opened.  
  
"It takes some time getting used to the change," he offers, and John feels more understood. Maybe Brad's a telepath—they're rare, but almost always involved with Special Ops. He doesn't ask, though, because that'd probably be rude. "You seem to be adjusting well. Just let me know if anything comes up.The LT likes to joke that I'm a misanthrope, but I like to make sure morale's high around here. And if I can't help you, I can assign someone else to."    
  
"Thanks," John says, and really means it.  
  
"Come over here," calls Leila from the opposite side of the plot, where she and Gunny Wynn's wife are harvesting everything that's ready. "You have to try these."  
  
He's handed something red and unidentifiable, but a bite in he realizes he's eating it because Leila thought it was too good not to share. And it is amazing, sweet and ripe. Maybe there'll be pie for dessert sometime in the next few days.  
  
"I heard these help with concentration," she explains. "That's what Rudy will have me believe, anyway."  
  
Brad takes a bite and says, "I don't feel any different," earning a sigh from Leila.  
  
"Don't be difficult."  
  
"This is  _Brad_  we're talking about," Emily says, and they all laugh, even John.  
  
He finally gets to be in on a joke. He's finally part of a group he likes. Minutes later, when they're all back at work, quiet and focused, he still feels good, which makes the work he's doing seem almost secondary. This is the life he gets to have, and it's pretty good.  
  
Leila gives him a napkin full of fruit at the end of his shift, just for him. He's nice enough to give Q-Tip some, and the fucker barely says thanks. So much for passing it forward.  
  
They play basketball after dinner, though, and it's good. It's just them, so they don't have to talk; all they do is play, the sky growing darker and air getting cooler around them until John can't see the makeshift hoop from a few feet away.  
  
"Um, we should probably get back, right? Before lights out?" John doesn't want to leave, but he didn't know what else to say. Better to cut it short than to not know how to fill the time.  
  
"Sure."  
  
So they go back to their separate rooms in separate buildings and do separate things. John forces his mind to stop thinking, as much as he can do that, anyway, and squeezes his eyes shut until he finally falls asleep.  
  
*  
  
Today John's on repair duty, with Baptista and Leon. Basically, there's a big workroom with long, wooden tables and high windows, and their job is to deal with anything that's broken or fucked-up. Some of it's easy, pipes that need reconnecting and utensils that are fine once forced back into shape. But there's a lot of shit he has no clue how to fix, and he ends up doing the simple shit while feeling bad about it. He tries to watch what they're doing in hopes that he'll learn something, when all it does is distract him from his own stuff.  
  
Midway through the morning, the LT stops in, a half-smile on his face and some kind of watch in his hand.  
  
"How's it going?" he asks. "Good to see you're feeling better, Baptista. I'm hoping you can work your magic on this." He hands the watch over, letting his empty hand slide across the table, wiping off dust.  
  
"It'd be great if we had some skeeners for this." Leon's holding something thin and silver and John has no idea what it is or what's wrong with it."  
  
"You know we have to make do unless someone bring them. Or figures out how to repair the ones Evan broke. Sorry," he says, really sounding it. "Is it okay if I borrow John for a little bit?" the LT asks, all deference. He'd probably go ahead even if the answer was  _no_ , though.  
  
There's a moment of dead quiet and then Leon says  _sure_.  
  
John has to wonder if he's done something wrong, because couldn't the LT just say whatever he has to at lunch or rest? But he returned the book he borrowed from the library a few days ago, and he's been doing laundry and taking showers according to protocol.  
  
Then he thinks that maybe Special Ops is hot on his path and Kenton's decided to throw him out for their own good. Anything's possible, right? Having to leave would majorly blow, especially since he's only just started to settle in.  
  
"My office isn't too far," the LT says. "I just want to make sure we're not interrupted." Everyone uses the main command building for something almost every day, and John's no exception, so he's used to making the trip down there. Today— _now_ —it feels longer.  
  
But then, all of a sudden, they've arrived, and there's no dodging it now. John vaguely remembers meeting him here when it was his first day and he was scared shitless, overwhelmed by everything new around him. Now he's definitely freaked that something's off and takes really deep breaths to try and calm down.  
  
"Do you want some water? It's that or beer, but it's only morning, so…"  
  
John clears his throat, which is actually a little dry. "Water's fine. Thanks." That could've been a trick question, a test to see what kind of worker/community member he is, he thinks a second later.  
  
After a long few minutes where neither of them say anything and just sip their water, John asks, "Um, what's this about, LT? What did I do, I mean." The LT looks kind of surprised at that, or maybe put off.  
  
"John, you don't need to call me LT. Nate is perfectly fine," he says. "And the last thing I wanted was to worry you. This is just a routine meeting I like to have with all our new members to see how they're doing."  
  
"Oh." It's still a little weird that people care about him and want to know how he's getting used to the situation. Back at the 'ville, they were pretty much on their own: no one to talk to if they were upset or struggling with something. He knows that's not how things are here, but theory isn't the same as practice. "Thanks.  
  
I'm pretty good," he says. "Still figuring a few things out, I guess. Like, I thought I knew the work rotation, and then I found out I'm going on a supply run next week. Or I won't know where the compost is. But those are little things, and I'm actually happy."  
  
"You're getting along with everyone? Rudy says he's worried you're holding something back."  
  
He has to laugh. Rudy's great, but he's the kind of person who'd think that. John's just quiet.  
  
"Yeah," John answers. But Nate's here to help, so he admits that things between him and Q-Tip are kind of...strained at the moment. He explains what happened (well, a short version of it, because there are some things Nate doesn't need to know) and then folds his hands and waits for Nate to say something.  
  
"That sounds complicated." Nate sips his water thoughtfully. "Actually, I know he might not seem like it, but Brad's good with this kind of thing. Well, he's better at mediating fights, though that's not all he can do. Do you want me to have him come down here?"   
  
Nate has to be shitting John. There's no way he's going to drag Brad, who's a good guy, into this; they barely know each other.  
  
"Um, no. I think I'm good with you," he says, not wanting to accidentally offend Nate, especially since John's not sure what the deal with him and Brad is. "I guess I just want to know how to make things go back to how they were.  
  
"I think you can do it. Evan really cares about you, you know, and that outweighs whatever shit you guys are in," Nate says, refilling John's glass and shifting in his seat. "When he got here, he was this angry, bitter person.  _Rudy_ was skeptical he'd ever cheer up. I'm glad you're trying to work out your differences, but I'm not sure you're seeing the big picture."  
  
"I know," John says. He really does, and he also knows that he could be here for some time and still hasn't finished his work, so he picks up the shirt he'd been sewing buttons back on, rethreading the needle. "What are you trying to accomplish by telling me? Before he left, there—we had an...argument, and I think that's when we began and ended."  
  
"A resolution," Nate says, taking a few things from the basket to fold. "For you two, I mean. Or the start of something great. Whatever problems you're having, I understand. Brad and I were the exact same way for a long time, and you can bet it didn't help that I'm kind of everyone's boss. We're making it work, though, and I really do think if you and Evan have a real conversation about this, it'll at least work out the tension."  
  
"Okay," John says, already trying to work out what he'll say and do, and Nate says he's, of course, welcome to stay indefinitely. The rest of the day is considerably harder, though, since he's trying to dream up some speech that'll fix everything with Q-Tip and also fix all the broken shit laying on the workshop table.  
  
The guys are pretty nice about how distracted John is, but when he almost slices through Baptista's finger with a laser, they send him to go help clean the main compound, where he can't maim or kill anyone. And he doesn't want to be known as the guy who slacks off, but he figures everyone must have an off day not and then, right?  
  
He'll have twenty minutes of concentration and then his thoughts will drift back to Q-Tip for an hour while he wipes the same spot over and over. Caroline is totally going to kick his ass in a couple hours, when she sees what he's done. Or failed to do, he guesses, because everything wooden is streaky and half-dusty instead of clean.  
  
All through quiet hour, John paces and thinks. Q-Tip gets seriously annoyed when his "alone time" is interrupted. Going in there to try and make this right now would only serve to push them further apart.  
  
Dinner's way too public for John to even think about talking to Q-Tip. Hopefully this isn't some kind of sign that he really shouldn't be doing this at all. He drinks about six glasses of water and fills up on bread, which feels like rocks in the pit of his stomach. Every so often (a lot—too much) he glances down to the other end of the table, where Q-Tip's stuffing his face and talking very animatedly with some guy John thinks is nicknamed Manimal.  
  
Nate slips John an encouraging look or two, though he seems kind of preoccupied with something Gunny's telling him. Brad looks like he knows something's up, which he probably does, though John can't tell if it's about him or not. It's hard to stay calm with so much going on inside his head.  
  
Someone really should invent a pill that lets you turn your mind off, especially since there are ones for cleaning your teeth and improving your muscles and letting you make babies. He'd take a no-thoughts pill in a second, no questions asked.  
  
Once the meal's over and everyone's cleared out, he lingers at the table, hoping it'll give him some sort of answer. He can't say he's surprised when nothing comes (though he'll admit disappointment). In hindsight, he can see how fucked up everything was, just plain  _wrong_ , except he never had to worry about any of this shit. And he never thought he'd have to handle (or accept) being different until he met Q-Tip.  
  
That's why he has to go over there. John must owe him a  _thanks_ , at the very least. He's able to slip unnoticed through the dark and even into Q-Tip's room without anyone noticing.  
  
"Do you have a few minutes?" John asks. When he gets a nod in response, he closes the door, sucks in a breath, and mentally composes everything he'd planned on saying. His heart's pounding in his chest when he starts with a general apology for not understanding whatever he didn't at the time.  
  
Q-Tip's expression softens, and that eases John enough to keep talking.  
  
"You probably hate me right now, and I get it, but I don't feel the same. I came here for you," he admits, "all the way out here. Don't tell me I'm too late. You scared the shit out of me at first. I didn't know what your deal was or why I was having all these  _feelings_ , and even with that, all I wanted to do was hang out with you. When I helped you break into the main complex, it wasn't because I really cared about Lilley. It was 'cause I couldn't stand the idea of you getting caught and, you know, fucking reeducated."  
  
John's not getting any reaction, just a blank stare; it's unnerving. He makes himself keep going: it's now or never and he needs to do this for himself.  
  
"I didn't realize everything until after you left, and then I found out that I was probably in really deep shit, so I just left. You might not see it this way, but I followed you here." He's out of breath and has to stop for a second, but keeps going before Q-Tip says something.  
  
"Then the LT talked to me and I...mother _fuck_ , I'd follow you anywhere. I'm kind of in love with you and I don't even know what you—if you feel the same way. So I just need to know, or else I'll probably lose my mind."  
  
The next few (silent) moments are the longest of John's life. He's searching Q-Tip's face for any signs of emotion and getting nothing, making the logical side of his brain hate the emotional one. It feels like forever.  
  
"About damn time," Q-Tip says slowly. "I never thought anyone could be so out of it, and then I met you." He's smiling while he says it. Everything is right and good.  
  
The biggest sigh of relief pushes itself from John's body. Finally, they're okay. He's been waiting for this for weeks; it's practically made him sick, and it's definitely set him on edge.  
  
In a breath, John draws up what little bravery he has left and says, "I don't know if this is the time, but I want—"  
  
Before he can say anything else, or even fucking  _breathe_ , their mouths are touching, the space between them gone. It feels like someone lit him on fire and left him there to spark; that's how good it already is, and his skin feels tight with want. He exhales from the shock of it, then Q-Tip coughs and they both have to pull away.  
  
John says  _sorry_  and Q-Tip says  _you ready this time?_  and John says  _yeah_.  
  
It's timed better so it's better overall. Q-Tip's tongue is warm and soft, surprisingly gentle, and the newness of the situation is exciting. They're not even remotely buzzed (John had considered liquid courage before talking to Q-Tip, but thought it'd make him fuzzy-headed and careless), yet he feels high off endorphins or something.  
  
For a few minutes, he slips out of...not consciousness, exactly, but a state of knowing, and when he refocuses, his head's clear. Like fucking magic, only he knows that shit doesn't exist.  
  
Q-Tip's hand is around his throat, fingertips leaving colored points of pressure, and John's never felt safer. He's pressed against the door with Q-Tip's thigh between his legs and no way to close his mouth (not that he'd want to, shit)—the situation's completely out of his control, basically, and he couldn't care less. This is the only place he wants to be. If he could stay here forever, he'd do it without a second thought.  
  
Outside the room (which is the only important place at the moment, but John still has ears) he registers someone walking in the hallway and it sounds like they're pausing right at Q-Tip's door.  
  
"Hey," John says, trying to keep his voice low and wow, he's raspy. "I don't think we're alone."  
  
Turning away for a minute (and giving John a great view of his ass), Q-Tip locks the door, grabbing the chair to jam it, too.  
  
"Just in case," he says with a half-smile, showing bright white teeth that John really wants to swipe his tongue across. The opportunity presents itself a moment later, when Q-Tip slots their mouths together again, only with more urgency this time. And there should be, after months of tension and buildup, their horrible fight that left John shaken for days.  
  
And all of that seems to be working itself out—with their tongues practically shoved down each other's throats, no less, but a resolution is a resolution, even if the pressure in John's spine keeps building. If it doesn't stop soon he's going to...actually, it hasn't happened before, so he has no fucking clue, but it probably won't be good.  
  
"Bed," Q-Tip says into John's neck, and then bites it.  
  
 _We're there already?_  John wants to ask. He's never been with someone, so he doesn't know if there's supposed to be some kind of timeline:  _x_  minutes of kissing times  _y_  number of days they've known each other, or whatever, and he's also kind of fucking thrilled that this is happening.  
  
"Take this off," he insists, tugging uselessly at John's shirt. "Fuck, I wanna see."  
  
All of the muscles of John's body freeze up. He knows his face tenses.  
  
This is new for them, and sex is new to John, period. Q-Tip knows what John thinks of his appearance, if he hasn't forgotten, and this is completely different from seeing each other in workout gear. He'll do it, but he'd really rather not go first. He pulls his shirt down, holding it by his waist like an idiot.  
  
Q-Tip rolls his eyes a little, and John worries that this will be over before it's even started. But he just says  _I can't believe I gotta do this_  and then sits John down on the bed.  
  
"Can’t you see—fuck, you’re beautiful, okay? And I’m not gonna repeat myself, so I hope you heard me." It's the sincerity of his tone that gets John, makes him understand what this is: the start of a relationship, not just a random fuck, and Q-Tip sees the best version of John.  
  
"Okay," he says, letting his hands drop. They hit the wooden bedframe, and he pulls away while trying to keep them from touching anything else. "Okay, yeah. Thanks. I needed that."  
  
"Fuck, do you  _ever_  shut up?" Q-Tip plops down next to him and John bites his lip, enjoying the actual fucking whimper he gets in response. It's a different angle, but John turns his head just a little and sees where the moon's casting shadows on Q-Tip's face.  
  
Maybe it's not better (their teeth knock together) or maybe they just need to figure out how they're doing this; it gets good again when he notices he's being eased back against the pillows, Q-Tip's body fitting perfectly above John's.  
  
He's really hard, enough that having pants on is uncomfortable. Q-Tip's hard too, though, and the way they're pressed together is almost good enough for John to leave everything be.  
  
"Can we...fuck, I just need to—" His face is flushing, and for no apparent reason, which is embarrassing and really childish and probably something Q-Tip's going to laugh at him about. "It's…" he gestures vaguely to his jeans, how they're obviously tented in the front."  
  
"Yeah," Q-Tip says, and then something clicks and he gets it. "Hang on."  
  
A couple minutes later, they're half-sitting, half-kneeling on the bed, and John has to grab Q-Tip's shirt just to stay upright with how he's being manhandled. One of Q-Tip's hands is slowly working the buttons on John's shirt open, and the fingers of the other are in his hair, short as it is. The feel of nails against his scalp isn't exactly good or bad, it's just different, like it's pushing him to keep going.  
  
Carefully, he lets his hands fall from the fabric he'd been clutching and drop to waist-level, where they eventually settle on Q-Tip's waist. His belt is tricky, or maybe it's just John's shaky hands; either way, he struggles with it for a good minute before Q-Tip breaks away and helps him out.  
  
It's too hard to kiss while Q-Tip is having issues with his own of his clothes, getting his pants halfway over his boots before he figures out that he should've ditched them before pulling denim down his thighs. John takes off his own shoes and socks to speed the process, but Q-Tip grabs John's hand just as he's pulling the zipper.  
  
"Lemme," he says, voice a little ragged already. "Go back down." And John was never down in the first place, but he listens, spreading his legs so Q-Tip has room to kneel between them. He shivers when fingers brush the inside of his thigh, can't keep from pitching forward until he's pushed back with a half-annoyed huff.  
  
Soon it's Q-Tip's hands all over John's bare legs, the roughness of his palms ignored in favor of focusing on the tingly feeling in John's stomach. It's kind of like he needs to get sick, actually, but there's no bile rising in the back of his throat, and it's not bad, just kind of different.  
  
"What are we doing?" he gasps, mostly breathless, and doesn't inhale as he waits for an answer. Looking down is a stupid mistake, thoughtless, because he sees Q-Tip: hair mussed, eyes bright, lips damp, fucking  _naked_ , glancing up at John like he hung the moon or something.  
  
His own eyes fall shut—survival mechanism—and he hooks his fingers into the slats of the headboard to steady himself. "I don't." This isn't as easy as he thought it would be. "You know I haven't." It's not a full sentence or even very logical. He can't bring himself to say more and hopes it's enough.  
  
"Dunno," Q-Tip answers, and he's chewing his lip when John finally manages to open his eyes. "What are you, you know, into?"  
  
  The frustration starts seeping into John's bones then, because didn't he just say he didn't fucking know and wonders if Q-Tip's being dense on purpose. He shrugs and rubs at his face, wanting desperately to hide, but not to leave.  
  
"Just come up here," he finally says, and they're kissing again and still naked and touching a lot. His hips come up without him telling them to, which makes Q-Tip laugh and ask  _what else?_  The air's being pushed from John's lungs, a little at a time, so he ends up with his palms splayed just below Q-Tip's ribs, a last resort if he needs one.  
  
Something's poking his thigh, and it takes him a minute to figure out that it's Q-Tip's dick. Messing around makes John stupid, apparently, or maybe he can blame that on how most of the blood in his body is being diverted to the same place on him. The need to get off is kind of urgent, and when his hips come up again he digs his nails into Q-Tip's back.  
  
"Come on," John says. He hasn't waited this long to come against Q-Tip's belly without even being touched. That'd be really disappointing, and he does his best to push Q-Tip off of him so the point's clear.  
  
"I want." He takes a big breath and forces himself to meet Q-Tip's eyes. "Fuck me." Q-Tip looks like he's been hit, and John panics internally until he says  _yes_ , all raw and eager.  
  
There's a rush of cool air over John's body when Q-Tip hauls himself up and off, his ass just as pale and perfect as the rest of him. He's digging through his dresser and John's breathing won't slow down no matter how hard he tries.  
  
Q-Tip comes away from the dresser with a little bottle dangling from between his fingers, yanking the bunched-up covers from off the bed before sitting down on it again. He strokes along the hair under John's navel and when his hand drops lower it's like a revelation, everything he's been waiting for and more.  
  
It makes his breath catch in his chest, not that it hasn't been doing that for the past twenty minutes, and it's not until Q-Tip puts his whole hand around him that he can exhale. Of course, it's just then that a whine forces its way out of John's throat while his dick is fucking twitching in Q-Tip's palm.  
  
He doesn't follow it up with words, if only because he can't form them, though it might be a good idea. Q-Tip's mouth is curled in a half-smile and John wonders if he's doing something wrong.  
  
John's a little put-off (nowhere near enough to think about stopping), which is how his thoughts start wandering and end on the concept that Q-Tip's hard too and kind of preoccupied. The bottle's a little hard to reach, having fallen to the side, but John gets it anyway, popping the cap once it's upright.  
  
"So this is where we...you know, right?" Being embarrassed is kind of weird, because they're about to do what he can't say and it doesn't seem to have faded at all since he poured his heart out.  
  
"What makes you think I'm some kinda expert?" One of Q-Tip's eyebrows goes up almost comically, but John's naked with his legs spread, so nothing's really funny right now.  
  
"Um," John hedges, because he really doesn't know, but he's kind of always equated Q-Tip's confidence with the ability to sleep with whoever he wanted. "Shit, does it matter?" He shifts onto his stomach, hiding his face in the process. Q-Tip snaps the top back on the bottle, leaving his fingers wrapped around it, and pushes John back to where he was.  
  
"Guess not. Don't worry about it." His breath is coming in hot puffs right over the base of John's dick, a tease he can barely stand. "Dude, you have to relax," Q-Tip insists, pressing a kiss to John's hipbone, and it takes work not to jerk on impact and break Q-Tip's nose.  
  
"This is—fuck—great; I just...you don't have to," he says for lack of something better, because Q-Tip's  _this_  close to sucking John's dick and the last thing he wants is to seem ungrateful.  
  
"When have I  _ever_  done something I didn't wanna?" Q-Tip asks, pulling back so he can look straight at John. "This is just gettin' started. You're seriously tense, is all. Nothing's gonna happen if you stay like that."  
  
He's right, of course, and John threads his fingers in Q-Tip's hair so he has an outlet for the tension. The relief is momentary; Q-Tip ducks lower without saying anything else, which is almost too much for John to handle. He's never had someone's mouth on him like this before. It's terrifying and thrilling at once—he wants to bolt but it feels too good, hot and wet and messy.  
  
John sees Q-Tip's throat working before he can feel it open, and he hears himself moan, pitchy and loud in the mostly-empty room. Lower down, Q-Tip couldn't be more pleased with himself. Words aren't necessary for John to figure this out, all keyed-up and breathless, because Q-Tip's doing his best impression of a smile and John can feel the extra space.  
  
Suddenly there's something cold and wet pushing at his asshole and nothing but air around his dick. He whines when Q-Tip presses his hips back down.  
  
"Wait a minute," he hears Q-Tip say thickly, and then the blanket's being folded into something resembling a square and slid under John's ass. "I'm gonna—" he wiggles his fingers. "Just tell me if you can't handle it."  
  
It strikes John (for the first time, because he's an idiot) that Q-Tip is giving him every opportunity available to back out, and it's thoughtful when he considers that Q-Tip's not being overly gentle with his fingers.  
  
"Keep going," he says, the decision reaffirmed when John accidentally moves or Q-Tip does something with his finger and his spine goes all tingly. There's some pressure, but it's not terrible. Sex is supposed to be great, everyone's said, and here he is: naked, squirming, and praying for Q-Tip's mouth on him again, because that'd make it great.  
  
Like most things, he's making that as difficult as possible. John's sure Q-Tip knows what he wants, but he won't until it's specifically requested, John stuttering and trying not to turn too red. It happens soon enough (though not before Q-Tip coats another finger to make the slide in easier), except there's no rhythm to any of it and that's frustrating.  
  
When Q-Tip presses the tip of his ring finger to where the other two are working inside John, he can't help but tense up again, flailing until his palms find the headboard. That makes everything stop for a minute, or until Q-Tip decides John's okay—his sense of time is fucked.  
  
He accidentally pushes forward, trying to adjust faster, and his hips (and dick) follow. This doesn't seem to faze Q-Tip, who just lets it happen without trying to take control, for once in his life. It's tighter, between how Q-Tip's throat is practically enveloping John's dick and he's gotten a third finger into John's ass, completely new and incredibly good.  
  
Maybe Q-Tip was right about it being too much, if that also means  _stop before John breaks into a million little pieces thanks to that fucking_  mouth. Nothing comes out when he opens his own, and he might just die of frustration if he doesn't come soon.  
  
He gets close without even realizing it. What Q-Tip's doing is too much and not enough all at once, and he feels like he might black out. He tries to form words, to say something intelligible as a warning; he'd bet it's the polite thing to do. Being an incoherent mess, though, John presses his head to the pillow and comes, his body arching off the bed.  
  
Minutes later, his heart's finding its normal pace, and his breathing's pretty much even. Q-Tip is looking at him hungrily but sitting back on his heels, doing that almost-cautious thing again.  
  
"What?" John asks, hating how his voice rasps against his dry throat but too preoccupied to put on pants and get water. "Don't tell me I did it wrong or something."  
  
"No," Q-Tip says, "just…" and when he crawls back over John can feel what Q-Tip meant.  
  
"Right," he says. But he doesn't know if he's supposed to use his mouth or what, and asking will probably make him seem stupid. Q-Tip doesn't say or do anything to help him out, not that John expected that of him. The awkward handjob he attempts must not be a complete failure, though, because Q-Tip's eyes shut and his hips press up.  
  
He feels validated enough to push Q-Tip back and sit on his thighs, trying to kiss him and keep the motion of his hand steady all at once. He's not entirely successful, which seems to matter less the more he flicks his thumb over the head of Q-Tip's dick. Mostly he tries to do what feels good on himself, only on Q-Tip (obviously). The skin under his hand is getting slicker, and Q-Tip seems to be enjoying himself.  
  
Stopping for a minute, he sees the way Q-Tip's head is tipped back, his skin flushing from his cheeks to his chest, his eyes flicking back and forth under his lids. Then his eyes open, much more black than green now, and he asks, "What's the holdup?"  
  
"I'm, um, I just wanted to," John stutters, wondering why his brain has to pick now to stop forming coherent sentences. But he doesn't have to worry about finishing it, because Q-Tip pulls John into him by the back of his neck and kisses him with just enough tongue.  
  
When his hips shift accidentally, it sets off a spark of pleasure in his core, and he does it again, on purpose this time. And again, and again, and again, until Q-Tip separates their mouths.  
  
"What?" John asks.  
  
"Dude, seriously?" Q-Tip doesn't follow this up with an explanation, though. He just wraps an arm around John's back and flips them over in one smooth move. "Ready to try this again?" There's just a hint of smugness in his voice, and he gets his arm out from underneath John to fumble for a tube on the nightstand.  
  
He closes his eyes, and tries to stay relaxed as Q-Tip pushes into him. Deep breaths help. So does gripping Q-Tip's shoulders to make sure he doesn't move. There's too much pressure just to ignore it; he has to wait it out with Q-Tip tense above him, as still as he can be and so hard.  
  
"Okay," John says after what feels like forever. It must feel longer to Q-Tip. "I'm ready. Just...slow, okay?"  The first move comes with a rush of soreness, and maybe he winces, because Q-Tip kisses him, and that's distraction enough. John feels naked, trapped, even though he knows he's safe, and he puts his hand on Q-Tip's face and pushes him back to look for a second. That doesn't go unnoticed, but neither of them say anything, and Q-Tip starts to suck a mark into John's neck.  
  
He arches up into it, feeling Q-Tip press deeper into him with the shift. Playing dirty, and John feels  _it_  again, like he might break. Q-Tip's thrusts speed up and the friction on John's dick, which is trapped between their bodies, builds and builds, a counterpoint to the warmth spreading at the base of his spine.   
  
It's almost good enough to hurt, Q-Tip moving steadily, confidently (and John's thighs are going to be sore tomorrow from the new position), but it's not quite enough, and he's lost the ability to say what he wants. Again.  
  
With some maneuvering, he gets one hand down to touch himself, surprised that he's already come and is this hard again. But his hand's knocked away by Q-Tip's, and the other one balances on John's hip so he can keep going. John tries to say how close he is. Q-Tip steals his breath with a kiss and John's eyes open and he just can't hold back any longer.  
  
All the motion is gone, and as soon as John can think again, he says, "Come on, let me do you, I wanna see," watching Q-Tip's face as he jerks him off, not hesitant this time.  
  
Q-Tip keeps biting his lip and cursing, showing a whole new lack of restraint, and it's fucking hot. His fingers wind themselves through the slats on the headboard. John ignores the ache starting in his wrist and goes faster because he can feel how close Q-Tip is.  
  
Within two minutes, there's a sticky burst of warmth across John's hand, and he meets Q-Tip's eyes, just watching him get off.  _Wow_ , he thinks, heart racing. Then, stupidly, I  _did that_.  
  
Catching his breath takes some time, long minutes of his skin growing tacky and his thoughts filtering back in. They're not worried ones, though (must be an effect of the sex), even with the fact that he just did it with his best friend.  
  
They're sweaty and sticky and probably smell terrible, but make do with using a damp cloth to clean up, since the showers stop working after nine at night. John flops back into bed like his bones could turn into gel and give out at any moment. His eyelids get heavier and heavier, and soon he's losing the fight to stay awake and savor how they're kind of touching and completely relaxed.  
  
"Hey," Q-Tip asks, poking John in the ribs. It hurts, and he doesn't see why it's necessary. "You still awake. I can't sleep."  
  
"Mmf," John says. Drifting in and out of wakefulness isn't the same as being awake and willing to participate in a conversation. He came maybe fifteen minutes ago, and he's a teenager, but he's still tired. It's not like he can just jump up and leave, what with them being in the same bed and his muscles being useless. "'s a matter?"  
  
"I'm glad you're here an' all, cuz it sucked back there, but I'm not...I think I'm gonna leave."  
  
"What?" Well, he's certainly a-fucking-wake  _now_. "Prob'ly not a good idea to dro' a bomb on someone like that." And his mouth hasn't quite caught up. Q-Tip can deal; he just sprang something big on John. "Especially after...fuck, did you even think this shit through?"  
  
"Mostly," Q-Tip says, and that's just fucking great, because mostly will get you an A for effort and a D for actual work. Even John was sure about what he was doing when he left the 'ville. "Kinda. Don't you want more than this? I do. Being here makes my skin itch. This place is fucking suffocating me. I can't stand routine. And there are so many fucking rules."  
  
The irony of what Q-Tip is saying forces a shocked laugh out of John. It's bitter in his throat, almost. Certainly not in response to actual humor.  
  
"Are you shitting me?" John can barely process the situation. "You practically dragged me out here, saying this place would be the best thing to ever happen to me, and now you want to leave? Well, that's just great. Really. Where are you going to run off to next?"  
  
"Sometimes you gotta do without worrying," Q-Tip says, like he'd pack a bag and leave without a map or a buddy or a plan. To John, it sounds whack. Even though he came out here alone, he had some idea of where he was going and how long it'd take to get there. "There are some places I've heard of that are tryin'a change things. I want that. Not people who sit around and talk about how much things blow but don't do shit."  
  
He's so wrong, John knows, and just as they're working themselves back together, something like this has to come along. It's probably going to tear them apart. He's not going to let it without a fight, but once Q-Tip gets an idea, there's absolutely no stopping him.  
  
"Why can't you just be happy here? If you leave, you'll probably find someplace else and then decide you want to move again," John says. Their situation dictates that not staying in the same place for too long is a good idea, which he gets, but lots of activity might put targets on their backs—meeting more people increases the chance that one of them is an informant.  
  
"Maybe," agrees Q-Tip. "Or maybe not. Whatever. I won't know until it happens, either way. But I don't wanna regret something I didn't do. I can't be caged, John, we can't live like that. We didn't used to."  He knows Q-Tip's talking about ancient history, back when people wandered the earth, back when they killed to eat and walked everywhere and lived in little tight-knit pockets, bound by family and language.  
  
But that was when years were measured in a different way and no one was in charge. So long ago it was just a footnote in what he learned in school.  
  
"And what am I supposed to do?" John asks, for lack of something more coherent or profound to contribute. "Stay here while you run off and save the world? Great. Just what I wanted."  
  
"No way you're staying behind," Q-Tip insists. "Forget this. Come with me."  
  
There's no way Q-Tip's managed to do this to him again. His head spins. Everything in front of him becomes blurry.  
  
"Can you go?" he asks. "I have to think about this. We'll talk tomorrow."  
  
"Really," Q-Tip says. "Wow." Before John can say anything else, he grabs his pants and leaves, slamming the door behind him.


	4. Chapter Four

Waking up in an empty bed brings all the memories from last night rushing back. John's reminded of the terrible blowup they had before Q-Tip left the 'ville, and it's clear that things are pretty fucking bad between them now. On top of it, he kicked Q-Tip out of his own damn room, and that's not going to earn him any points.  
  
Nothing like feeling terrible to jump-start your morning, right?  
  
He has to throw on the same clothes he was wearing yesterday and take a swig of water to dull the sour taste in his mouth, and then he sets off in search of the man himself. It doesn't take long. He finds Q-Tip asleep in the tiny, cramped common room, and instantly feels even worse.  
  
When Q-Tip is hungry, he gets snappy, and he'll probably be angry and tired when he wakes up. John gets to the kitchen just as breakfast is opening up and convinces Rudy to let him take a breakfast (muffins, fruit salad, and juice) in a container to go. It's what John presents when he wakes Q-Tip up, and it softens the look on Q-Tip's face just a bit.  
  
"I can't believe I kicked you out of your own room last night. I am  _so_  sorry," John says.  
  
"Yeah, that was kinda an asshole thing to do. This couch isn't as comfortable as you might think, either." Q-Tip rubs at the back of his neck, which makes John feel bad when when he wonders, just for a second, if the move is real or to guilt him. "Breakfast would go a long way in helping your case, though."  
  
"Right, of course," John says, handing over the plastic and bottle. "Can we talk about what you were telling me last night, maybe? I didn't listen as well as I probably could have." Q-Tip nods from around a mouthful of berries, so John takes that as his cue to start. "I think you're still adjusting to being here, and it's not everything you expected, so you want to be somewhere else."  
  
"That's fair," Q-Tip admits. "Lilley told me all this stuff, and then I got here, and it's passive resistance or whatever. _Boring_."  
  
"Have you talked to the LT about how you feel?" John asks. Q-Tip shakes his head. "Have you talked to anyone besides me about it?" Another negative. "Okay, I don't think you really want the hassle of having to find another community. And leaving just sticks you right out there in the open to be brought back to the city and reeducated."  
  
Q-Tip makes a horrible face, curling his lip and accidentally letting a piece of muffin fall out of his mouth.  
  
 "Right," John continues. "I might still be the new guy, but you haven't been here that long, either. Can you promise to stay another month? If you want to spend the whole time planning what you'll do when you leave, that's fine. Just...stay?"  
  
  For once, he's leading the situation, and it feels weird. Good weird. Q-Tip chews.  
  
"'Cause you guilted me into it," he says with that sarcastic smile John's come to love. "You know, my neck really hurts from sleeping here last night. You might wanna fix that."  
  
*  
  
Attempting to hide what they're doing is useless, given the close quarters. Brad's the first to notice it, and Nate's the first to acknowledge it. People seem happy for them, especially with how long the whole thing took.  
  
The rule about not starting conflicts is always present in John's head, because his relationship and Kenton are both bigger than each other and he's not going to let one ruin the other. But he's not sure where the line marking him and Q-Tip becoming an issue is.  
  
With any luck, their two big fights will be the only ones they have for some time, and they can relax, because John really loves it: stealing food from each other's plates at breakfast, bumping hips as they work if they're lucky enough to have the same shift in the same place, curling up together during rest hour, their bodies close but barely touching as they drift off to sleep.   
  
A lot of times it's kind of like how it was before, only they'll get a little closer during a pickup basketball game, or John will distract Q-Tip from his sketching with a hand on his thigh, and at the end of the day, they squeeze into one of their beds and get each other off. Plus, they're already used to each other's habits and quirks, so there are no unpleasant surprises. He's basically dating his best friend, and it's sick.   
  
Nothing's ever so perfect, though. Q-Tip spends a ton of time researching other communities like theirs, as John's allowing, and his desire to leave doesn't seem to be fading. He doesn't ever mention John when talking about options. It becomes a point of contention, especially when all John wants to do after a long day is relax, and this only makes his insecurities about being younger and inexperienced (not good enough) worse. Except he's learning that's what relationships are: a constant push-and-pull. It's not just sex and hanging out together; it's work, and John puts the time and effort into things that are important to him.  
  
*  
  
Maybe two weeks into John's probationary period, so to speak, everything between them gets calm. Q-Tip stops talking about leaving at all, and they really seem to be working well as a unit, not two people half-trying to coexist. John wonders if maybe it's the eye of the storm, then decides he doesn't care.  
  
He's doing minor repairs on the grounds, which is fine. Anything that leaves him with enough energy at night is fine. Changing out old doorknobs, his current task, gets this weird black grease all over his hands, but he tries not to complain about anything.  
  
Out of nowhere, there are three electronic-sounding beeps, and then a slightly muffled version of Nate's voice over some kind of mass comm system John had no idea was even out here.  
  
"There will be a company meeting at 0200," he says. "Attendance is mandatory. There will be a company meeting at 0200 in the common area of the main building. Work schedules will be shifted accordingly tomorrow."  
  
John looks up at the sun. Whatever it is must be important, because he's never heard an announcement on the system except for about mealtimes. He guesses it's around one in the afternoon. More alarmingly, Pappy either doesn't know what's going on or won't say; he may be quiet, but he's a fucking infinite source of knowledge.  
  
Lunch is almost silent, tense. People are worried without knowing the cause; no one wants to eat much, except Rudy doesn't allow food to go to waste. John chokes down his meal, the food making his throat dry and painful.  
  
It's back to work after an hour or so, which is a wash. John can't focus, and when he sees Stiney come out of the fields, set his sickle in the storage box, and head toward the main building, he follows. Though it's not yet time for the meeting, there are at least a dozen people settled on the couch and in chairs, or too nervous to sit.  
  
John picks at the calluses his hands have developed since he got here, for lack of anything better to do. Today, he knows, Q-Tip is on guard duty, so he probably won't show up until the last minute.  
  
Nate comes in right on the hour, Q-Tip flushed and out of breath behind him, trying to find a seat without being too much of a distraction. John glances over at him, then faces forward when Nate clears his throat.  
  
"Thank you all for coming on time," he says with a curt nod, "and thanks and apologies to Gunny, who'll be the one rejiggering the schedule. What I'm about to say isn't meant to alarm anyone, though it most likely will. We want you to be informed as to what's going on, so…" he pauses, giving an unsure little shake of his head. "There are new regs about defectors, and 'harmless' doesn't mean what it used to. We should expect a raid."  
  
The room goes from silent to deafeningly loud in a matter of seconds. People are yelling. Gunny's baby gets scared and starts wailing. John can't make out any words or conversation; everything runs together. Then the panic kicks in for him, too. As a recent runaway, he's basically fucked.  
  
"If everyone could just settle down," Nate says. "I know, I know, but fear isn't helping the situation. We've known that something like this would happen eventually. Godfather's been tracking us for almost ten months. Now, apparently, we're a bigger threat than we used to be."    
  
"That rich fuck," someone interjects. There's general agreement from the group, and John remembers that Godfather's the code name for the head of the Special Ops. "We haven't done anything differently."  
  
"Doesn't matter to them," Pappy offers.  
  
"What matters is that we got the intel in advance," Gunny reminds everyone. "They could come in three days or in a month, but we sure as shit can get ready to fight them. And we'll be comin' up with a revised evacuation plan, failing that."  
  
"Now more than ever is the time to be calm," Brad puts in. "Do you know what their main advantage is? Intimidation. They control people who practically shit themselves at the idea of meeting them. And we might not have all their high-tech equipment, but they'll be coming to us. That really does give us the upper hand, but that doesn't mean we can walk into this shitstorm blind and expect to come out unscathed."  
  
"A strategy's being devised," Leila assures them. "Caroline's taking ideas. We should have something within the next few days."  
  
"What if it happens before then?"   Spots of pink appear on Nate's cheeks.  
"We're working as fast as we can. If there's an immediate strike, we'll make sure everyone has directions regarding the emergency escape tunnel," he says, face paling out. "In the meantime, everyone's daily routine is going to change a bit. Rudy and Brad will be implementing a physical training program, and those doing non-essential tasks will help with strengthening our security."  
  
"I'm sure everyone is anxious about this. I am too," Nate continues. "We're reaching out to some friends to see about alternate living spaces, and we have a contact on the inside trying to find out more information and possible consequences. You shouldn't be concerned with anything else, though Gunny and I are happy to speak to anyone with questions individually. We're going to cancel the rest of the day so families can discuss this more privately. Thanks."  
  
Some people leave immediately, in anger or fear or something in between, and others hang back. John pushes his way across the room to Q-Tip, grabbing his arm so they stay connected in the disorder.  
  
"Fuck," John says. Q-Tip, whose face went unusually pale who knows how long ago, scrubs a shaky hand over his hair as some kind of acknowledgement. "Do you want to go back to your room?" he asks, and Q-Tip lets John carry some of his weight all the way back.  
  
They have sex. It's desperate, like touching a raw nerve. Q-Tip cries out the first time John pushes into him—the only noise he makes. His eyes stay closed. John probably comes too fast.  
  
After, they don't talk about it, though John knows Q-Tip must be a mess inside, worried that his record will screw him over if they're raided.  
  
*  
  
  Days pass with everyone on edge, the alert high. Something could happen at any minute. It definitely affects work, meals, rec time. His relationship, despite their best efforts, is suffering. Watching an old movie on one of the media players will devolve into arguing; a game of pickup basketball will end when someone gets bored. There's no concrete thing to pin it on; all he knows is that if things don't work out, it won't be because he didn't care or try. Maybe they're just cursed with shitty timing, destined for a better go in another life, or maybe they were shoved together by circumstance and aren't meant to work out in reality.  
  
"John," Leila says, and his eyes refocus, remembering he's not on his own time. "Are you all right?" He nods, handing her the two-by-four she must've asked for several times. He probably isn't, really, but now isn't the time. They have to prepare.  
  
Even in the middle of all the craziness, Nate calls John in for another meeting. It's supposed to be a second heart-to-heart about Q-Tip, which it is, while doubling as an enhanced PT session. John nods and agrees where he thinks he's supposed to. Nate does have good advice. He just can't imagine the situation improving until the threat level goes down.  
  
The constant threat of attack isn't helping anyone. It's a psychological mindfuck. They could be raided tomorrow, or in a few months, or a year. It might not happen at all. There's only so much they can do to get ready.  
  
*  
  
  Slowly, though, Q-Tip starts to open back up. John has no idea if it's the threat of impending doom, or just him growing up, but it's a welcome (if gradual) change. Q-Tip will lightly touch John's back or hip in passing, and he's more chatty. One rainy day at lunch, he opens up a lot more and explains his fear of getting caught, what he'd do if he left, some stuff about his past.   John feels a lot more connected, like he actually deserves to know what's going on. No one's looking at them, so he leans in, touching Q-Tip's jaw, and kisses him, soft and restrained.  
  
There's a loud yell for the LT that breaks the moment. Like everyone else, they both look at Rudy, who's quickly moving from the back window to Gunny Wynn. Rudy whispers something to him, and Gunny's face instantly goes stern and serious.  
  
"Don't lose it," he says loud enough for everyone to hear, "but they're here. You can stay and fight, or you can try Green Falls, about seventy klicks south of us. No one's judging you for either. If you're going, go now."    
  
Before John can even take a breath, Q-Tip tugs him out one of the side doors by his wrist. It's bad already. People are coming in from the fields to see what's going on, and there seem to be more people outside than all of the residents combined. And that's just on the ground.  
  
Copters are descending from everywhere, somehow, and not just the regular City Patrol ones—they're sleek and black, unmarked. Specials.  
  
There are really loud alarms blaring and so much noise, maybe more than he's ever heard before, and he thinks someone's screaming. Inside is slightly quieter, even with Q-Tip tearing drawers out of dressers, rifling through clothes and papers, filling a durable canvas pack with items.  
  
"Don't just stand there," he says with a look that  _screams are you an idiot?_  "Take this and get your shit." He tosses a bag identical to his own at John. "Meet me at the main common room in a few."  
  
John has no idea what to pack for, but he throws clothes and shoes and toiletries into the bag, hoping he'll be weather-appropriate. It's not difficult, considering he didn't bring anything very personal in the first place, and he sneaks from his room through the garden and to the main building, hoping not being in plain sight will keep him from getting caught.  
  
Not surprisingly, Q-Tip is there already. He's talking to Manimal, who seems to be staying to fight, and they half-hug before Q-Tip steps away and towards John. John gets that there's no time for real goodbyes, but that doesn't make leaving easier.  
  
They walk outside and into chaos. Again. More screaming, so many more Specials, and kids everywhere. Brad's arms and torso are being held back by one sleekly-dressed man, and he's kicking another; John definitely sees spray air contaminants and blinding powder. He's overcome with the urge to stay and help fight off the Specials, even as he knows there's no way his friends are equipped to win this battle.  
  
A hand closes around John's wrist, and he has a moment of panic before looking up and realizing it's Nate's hand. He looks, for the first time ever, lost; he seems much younger now.  
  
"Go!" he yells. John can barely hear him. "Now. If you don't, they'll take you. Find somewhere completely off grid. I'm going to try to get in touch with everyone after this is over, and Brad too, if…" he glances away. "Go, John. And try not to fuck things with Q-Tip up too much."   John has to smile at that. They start running, and Q-Tip manages to tell John he's got an emergency pack with stuff to keep them alive for a little bit. He looks scared, which only makes the bottom of John's stomach drop out—and not in the good way. When John turns to see if anyone's coming after them, his part of the housing complex goes up in flames.  
  
*  
  
Over three hours pass before Q-Tip declares them safely out of the kill zone. He's winded, and John wonders if that's the reason they hadn't spoken since leaving Kenton or if the gravity of the situation did that.  
  
"I don't know if you're doing some kind of 'the less I know, the better' thing," John pants, "could you maybe enlighten me as to your plan?"  
  
"We're going to the mountains," Q-Tip tells John. "Past them, maybe. Somewhere away from here."  
  
He listens, because he's always listened to Q-Tip. It happens eventually, and John would have no idea where to go if he were on his own.  
  
What he doesn't say is:  _won't it be getting cold soon?_  
  
What he doesn't say is:  _neither of us have any idea what the fuck we're doing and clearly too much togetherness is bad for us and it's not like we have directions this time._  
  
He just says, "As far away as possible."  
  
John doesn't think Q-Tip wants him to say anything, so he doesn't. He doesn't really feel like talking, anyway. The emergency pack Q-Tip is making him carry, filled with purification tablets and healing strips, heavier gear for winter and some rations, cuts angrily into his shoulders. It could be a lot worse—like, they could have been killed by Specials or they could've been captured and "interrogated"—which is why he's not saying a word about the pain.  
  
It gets dark, and then cold, and they agree it's time to stop for the night. For warmth and convenience, Q-Tip unzips a sleeping bag so it's big enough for both of them, re-zipping it up as much as it'll go, to keep extra warm. His feet are freezing; he tucks them under John's calves and doesn't let him move.  
  
The surrounding area is quiet, and John falls asleep quickly, hearing only the rustle of leaves and Q-Tip's breath in his ear as he drifts off.  
  
*    
  
Eating, as it was when John was on his journey away from the 'ville, is a luxury that has to be rationed. He's better at it than Q-Tip is, and therefore carries it. The trick is to hold off until you're hungry and eat just at the edge of when the stomach pain makes walking more difficult. The rations are bland, practically tasteless, but they're enough calories to get them through the day.  
  
Q-Tip gives John directions, though he still hasn't said where they're going. He doesn't seem to know the route as well as it first seemed, but a warning about the bumps in the road would've been nice. There's a plunge into the freezing cold ocean; the unregulated temperatures; the spooky ghost town they stumble upon about a mile into one night's journey.  
  
John pulls out a flashlight, only to find that the town's completely fucking abandoned.  
  
"Creepy," he says, shivering. Something about it just makes him feel cold.  
  
It doesn't look like anyone's lived here in years. Many of the buildings are at least partially destroyed; some of them are just outlines of what used to be. There's no sound anywhere. No signs of life. Not even a fucking blade of grass.  
  
On the outskirts, there's a broken-down merry-go-round, a kids' swing. The only thing that's missing are the actual kids. John can't shake the feeling that something really, really terrible happened here.  
  
Almost everything's been wiped clean in the past few centuries—for a 'fresh start,' supposedly—but it looks like a few places were skipped over. John wonders if this happened everywhere, if it was the reason for the globe wipe.  
  
"Let's bounce," he says to Q-Tip, who nods, grabbing their packs and hauling ass. Neither one of them says anything until the next day, the town klicks and klicks to their back; even then, it's stilted until John digs out a half-crushed tube of hard candy from the bottom of his pack and shakes some of the pieces into Q-Tip's hand.  
  
That night, John goes down on Q-Tip for the first time. At first he thinks it's because he feels like he has to, but in the middle of struggling to kiss Q-Tip and get his pants down at the same time, he realizes  _no_ , he really wants to do this. It doesn't feel like returning a favor in the least. That's enough to make up for the sour taste that lingers in his mouth until he allows himself some water, hours later.  
  
*  
  
As the mountains get closer, the temperature continues to drop. Q-Tip breaks out the thermal jacket he stashed, and they switch off wearing it. The sky's still fucking bright, though, and John's nose turns pink and then red before the skin starts to peel off. Q-Tip laughs at him for it, but until it's healed, he kisses the area carefully and uses what little healing cream they have on it before bed.  
  
Having complete freedom and no responsibilities (besides carrying his pack and keeping up his pace) is great. They wake up when the sun shines across their faces, and go to bed when the sky is full of stars. John decides when they eat, and cleanliness isn't important. They do wash if there's a river available, though. No one's there to interrupt them if kissing gets a little handsy, which is possibly the best part.  
  
Except it can't last forever. John's conscious of their dwindling rations, the way his stomach rebels when the berry bushes disappear from the cold. Living on the move forever isn't an option. Q-Tip must know this; John doesn't tell him. They just walk. Their feet have built up calluses, though sometimes it still hurts. It's the reason why, one day, they're exhausted enough to crash before dark and completely forget about covering their tracks or even sleeping behind a tree.  
  
When they're startled awake by searchlights, John's brain only takes a second to figure it out. Specials are after them, and are dangerously close to finding them this second. He gets to his feet fast, going for the small cluster of sickly-looking trees to buy them some time.  
  
There are definitely people in the not-so-far-off distance who're getting closer by the minute. John swears he sees the light brush over Q-Tip's neck, but then it darts away from them, illuminating foliage and dirt, though not their bodies. It's just momentary relief—the copter's still up there and the agents are gaining on them.  
  
They're both frantically looking around the area, but John's the one who sees it first: a red-painted wood building, too large to be a house, and in really shitty shape. No one would think to look there for anything.  
  
It's their best shot, and only about four hundred yards away. Though it's a pretty easy sprint straight ahead, it'd put them right out in the open, vulnerable to the agents who're after them.  
  
He hesitates, and Q-Tip drags him, pulling faster than John's ready for. Neither of them get shot or even tagged; they collapse just inside the front door, and by some miracle, it's quiet outside.  
  
"Too fucking close," Q-Tip huffs, trying to catch his breath. "Whatever the fuck that was...I don't know if they're after anyone else, but we gotta make sure it doesn't happen again."  
  
"So we'll head west tomorrow, or something," John suggests. "Probably best if we stay here for the rest of the day. And tonight. Keep them off our track."  
  
"Definitely," Q-Tip agrees. "Hey, let's see what the fuck's even in this place!"  
  
The cabin has lukewarm running water that works long enough for them to shower (together, because they didn't want to chance it running out), jars of preserved fruit and long strips of smoked meat. It's a little depressing that it's the best they've eaten in at least a week, but it's pretty decent food.  
  
After a nap in the giant bed, John leaves Q-Tip drooling on the pillow, pulls on his clothes, and goes to see if there's anything interesting on the second floor. Yellowed, torn photographs line the stairwell, and John pauses to look at them, running his fingers over wistful-looking faces and rolling landscapes.  
  
There are a couple kids' bedrooms down one hallway, long abandoned and covered with dust. Everything looks much smaller compared to what he remembers about his own childhood bedroom. All the attic really has is some broken furniture and what look like old appliances, so after stopping in the upstairs bedroom to see if there's anything interesting to read (nope) he goes downstairs, finding Q-Tip up and alert.  
  
"Hey," he says, licking his lips, and though they do stuff almost every night, the signal it sends to John's brain makes it feel like it's been  _weeks_. He lets Q-Tip pull him down by the belt loops in his pants—it's a clean, comfortable, king-sized bed, after all, so why let it go to waste?  
  
*  
  
When they head out again after a good night's sleep, it's on sort of a diagonal away from the mountains. John will be glad if the temperature rises, and Q-Tip claims it's not a hard trip, mostly over flat territory. He's still kind of shaken from what happened the other day, and judging by the way Q-Tip leads them through wooded areas and away from open ones, he is too.  
  
It also served as a reminder that they can't do this forever. Sure, John loves being in nature, especially after years surrounded by metallic, industrial buildings. He and Q-Tip are finally bonding how he wanted.  
  
Eventually, though, there'll come a point when they can't keep this up: wandering through the wilderness, eating berries and food that's made to last years, sleeping in caves and behind trees. Their supplies aren't limitless, and without the supplies to purify water, they're at risk for all kinds of horrible diseases.  
  
Wary of stressing things between them yet again, John holds off on mentioning this until the right moment. That happens to be after lunch when day, when Q-Tip's relaxed and slightly sleepy, the sun shining down on them.  
  
"Most of the other communities, the ones like Kenton, aren't really taking in new people right now. Because of what happened. So we can't really do what I was plannin' on," Q-Tip says, avoiding John's eyes.  
  
"So what does that mean?"    
  
"It means we'll just make our own place to be. The LT told me before we left about some abandoned property that sounds like it might work. We could get there in a few days, maybe more."

  John sighs quietly, because Q-Tip's lack of foresight and planning seem to crop up at the worst possible times.  _Might_  doesn't always pan out. Without an exact location, or a map, they're liable to walk straight into a reeducation facility or something.  
  
"Well,  _might_  is better than  _definitely won't_ ," John says. If nothing else, a change of location could mean warmer weather and more food from the wild. "Which way?"


End file.
